534 


LIBRARY 

OF  Tin: 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


,  i8g 


JAW  1895 


Accessions  No  . 


&L  <-u>j-     *T-^ wW 


WOOD  BLOOMS 


BY 

JOHN    VANCE    CHENEY 

Author  of  "Thistle-Drift" 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK   A.    STOKES   &   BROTHER 
MDCCCLXXXVIII 


COPYRIGHT.    1888,    BY 
FREDERICK  A.    STOKES  &   BROTHER. 


TO 
MY   FATHER 


THE  SINGER  OF  TO-DA  Y. 

1\/TUCH  as  Calisto  stood  before 

Diana's  maids,  the  time  she  was 
Heavy  with  child  of  Jupiter, 
Stands  Genius,  great  with  thought,  before 
The  reproving  world.      Whoso,  indeed, 
Dare  not  declare  the  gift  from  Heaven, 
Must  blush  with  a  fair  shame  ;  confused, 
Must  bring  his  little  light  as  one 
That  bears  a  candle  to  the  air 
In  the  scant  hollow  of  his  hand. 
Doubt  follows  like  a  shadow,  faith 
Does  shake,  troubles  beset  the  way  ; 
And  yet  the  son  of  song,  true  bom, 
Holds  onward.      What  he  is,  he  is  ; 
And  nurslings  of  a  lesser  breed 


' 
>   0*  THDB 


II7BRSIT7 


THE  SINGER  OF  TO-DAY. 


Cannot  undo  his  birth,  nor  end 
His  -work.     The  harvest  may  be  light, 
But  what  is  reaped  will  wear  the  gold  : 
This  is  enough.     Nor  let  them  chide, 
His  braivny  brothers,  called  to  put 
The  sickle  in  a  fuller  field  : 
Forsooth,  stronger  than  they  as  they 
Than  he,  have  been.     The  ground  is  old; 
Ay,  what  is  left  for  any,  now? 
Simply  to  fitly  echo— pass 
The  great  First  Voices  down  the  years. 
Exceeding  few  may  be  far  heard— 
Too  true  y  still  it  is  a  brave  reach 
To  sweetly  take  the  nearest  heart. 


CONTENTS. 


I-TMJ 

Hilda ! 

St.  Isophore     .......  3 

Old  Braddock 7 

The  Revenge I2 

The  Three  Ages !6 

Hokan,  the  Hermit 24 

The  House  of  Pleasure 26 

The  White  Tower 32 

Then 34 

APart 36 

A  Day  Dream          . 37 

On  the  Wild  Ways  of  the  Night    ...  39 

Night  Wind  of  Fall  (I.) 40 

"        (ID         .  40 


CONTENTS. 


Song  of  the  Sea 42 

The  Voice 43 

Insane 44 

The  Shadow .46 

The  Shape  Unseen           ...                 •  47 

Back  of  it  all  is  Fate 48 

Bleeding  Heart  and  Broken  Wings        .        .  49 

Dirge 5O 

Dear  Maid,  pale  as  the  pale  Wild  Dove       .  51 

Voice  of  the  Past 52 

Memory   .                 53 

Calm 54 

The  Strong 56 

The  Dead  Hero  (I.)         .        .        .        .        .57 

"        "          (HO 57 

To  the  Bitter  End 59 

He  that  Hears  the  Voice        .        .        .        .61 

Faith 63 

At  Last 64 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Use  of  Sorrow 66 

Rest  upon  the  Hill 67 

The  Glories  of  Two  Worlds  ....  68 

My  Children    .......  69 

My  Dreams 70 

A  Wish 72 

My  Choice 73 

My  Castle  in  the  Air 74 

Deep  within  the  Forest  Gray         •        •        •  75 

In  Twilight  Land 76 

Waiting 78 

The  Old 80 

Our  Mother 81 

The  Heart's  Sovereignty         ....  82 

Death's 83 

The  Guest 84 

The  Confession 91 

Who  's  for  the  Magdalen  ?      .        .        .        -97 

The  Empty  Arbor 101 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Wind 104 

Song  and  Silence 106 

The  Trees I07 

Spring  Song  (i)  (My  thoughts— they  swing;)  .     108 

"      (2)  (Now  back  again  to  brown,  etc.)  108 

"     (3)  (The  maple  and  the  birch,  etc.)  109 

Morning  Song  in  Summer        ....     in 

Summer  Hours 113 

The  Brook IXg 

Summer  Noon uy 

August  Days IX8 

The  Stranger-Days 120 

Going  of  Autumn    ......     121 

Death  of  Autumn 123 

November 126 

Fancy's  Flock I2y 

On  the  Upper  Ways 129 

The  Poet         .        .        /      ,        .        .        .132 
The  Pilgrimage        .        .        P        .        .        .134 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Sacred  Veil 136 

Toung  Taloung *39 

The  Silent  Blessing 142 

In  the  Lane     . *45 

Good  By  (Song) 148 

By  and  By  (Song) •     J49 

What 's  in  this  Christmas  Day  ?      .        .        .151 

Great  is  To-day J57 

Every  one  to  his  own  Way    .        .        .        •     *59 

The  Good  Old-time IDI 

Granther l64 

A  Saint  of  Yore l67 

The  Old  Farm  Barn *7o 

Auto  da  fe J73 

An  Epistle  to  a  Bachelor        .        .        .        .179 
Brother  Bachelor  Batrachian  .         .         .        .184 

Our  Ophidian  Friend l89 

Silver  Bell *92 

Helen  201 


CONTENTS. 


_  PAGE 

Poetry  made  Practic 2O9 

The  Trapper's  Sweetheart        .        .        .        .213 

The  Jockey's  Soliloquy 2I5 

Modern  Progress    ....  ,218 


HILDA. 

RAY  Hilda  to  the  churchyard  came, 
A  withered  gypsy,  bent  and  lame  ; 
Straightway  she  struck  her  witches'  light — 
Three  greenish  flames,  sharp-tongued  and  bright. 

Next,  she  the  magic  circle  drew, 

Caught  thrice  three  leaves  the  night  wind  blew ; 

Then  fixed,  as  in  death,  sat  she 

Among  the  graves  all  silently. 

So  sat  she  till  the  village  clock 
Struck  twelve  ;  with  its  last,  warning  shock 
She  broke  the  charm — sent  back  below 
The  dim  shapes  gliding  to  and  fro. 


HILDA. 


These  passed,  but  till  the  darkness  fled 
Old  Hilda  sat  among  the  dead  ; 
Where,  overhead,  night  long  a  bough 
Did  sigh,  and  since  has  sighed  till  now. 

At  morn  she  rose,  cried  thrice  aloud, 
"Young  Winsted,  when  she  wears  her  shroud, 
The  fish  shall  feed  !  "    Then,  thin  and  gray, 
Like  a  live  mist,  she  went  her  way. — 

God  rest  her  soul — old  Hilda  gray  ! 
The  dreary  morn  they  laid  away 
The  maid  beneath  the  churchyard  tree 
Curst  Winsted's  ship  went  down  at  sea. 


ST.   ISOPHORE. 

"\  T  7HO  now  serves  the  Master, 

Heals  the  sick  from  door  to  door, 
As  did  he — God-fearing, 

Faithful,  brave  Saint  Isophore  ? 

"Healer,  heal  thy  thousand" 

— Plain  he  heard  the  voice  divine — 
"  Lives  a  thousand,  save  them  ; 

One  thereafter— forfeits  thine" 

All  but  to  the  limit, 

Firm  he  wrought  his  round  two-score  ; 
Then  the  voice  of  warning, — 

Dost  forget,  good  Isophore  ? 


ST.  I  SOPH  ORE, 


Thoughtful,  faintly  smiling, 

"  I  remember  well,"  he  said  ; 
"  But  one  more— one  only, 

And  I  number  with  the  dead." 

Calm  he  sat  and  questioned, 
Took  still  counsel  with  his  heart, 

Whether  it  were  better 
He  should  tarry  or  depart. 

Nature — well  he  loved  her, 
Loved  the  forest  and  the  field  ; 

These  were  lost  forever 
If  again  he  touched  and  healed.— 

Now  the  king  was  stricken, 

Isophore  they  sought  to  bring  ; 
"  Nay,"  he  answered,  "  life  is 
Sweet  to  beggar  as  to  king." 


ST.  ISOPHORE. 


Fathers,  mothers,  children, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old 

Gathered  to  the  healer  ; 
"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  the  scroll  is  rolled.' 

But,  ere  long  one  entered, 

Beautiful  as  flesh  may  be  ; 
At  his  feet  she  threw  her — 

"  Man  of  God,  Oh,  pity  me  ! 

"  Faithful  have  I  promised 

One  that  lives  beyond  the  sea  ; 
He  is  coming,  father, 
And  I  die.    Oh,  pity  me  !  " 

Filled  with  fear  and  anguish, 
Looked  she  in  the  healer's  face  ; 

Like  a  marble  statue, 
Sat  he,  silent,  in  his  place. 


ST.  ISOPHORE. 


White  he  sat,  and  silent, 

Thinking  backward  on  the  years  ; 
Sudden  to  the  maiden 

Turned  he,  smiling,  but  in  tears, — 

"  Daughter,  little  dreaming 

What  thou  askest,  why  I  give, 
Get  thee  to  thy  lover, 
To  thy — mother  ;  go,  and  live  ! " 

Merry  was  the  wedding  ; 

So  the  bride  shone  years  before, 
When  was  wed  the  mother, 

Faithless  to  young  Isophore. 

Merry  was  the  wedding 

While  the  good  ship  stood  off  shore 
At  that  hour  the  spirit 

Passed  from  peerless  Isophore. 


OLD  BRADDOCK. 

Fire  in  Allentown  ! 
The  Women's  Building— it  must  go. 
Mothers  wild  rush  up  and  down, 
Despairing  men  push  to  and  fro  ; 
Two  stories  caught — one  story  more— 
See — see — old  Braddock  's  to  the  fore, 
Braddock,  full  three-score. 

Like  a  high  granite  rock 

His  good  gray  head  looms  huge  and  bare  ; 

Firm  as  rock  in  tempest  shock 

He  towers  above  the  tallest,  there. 

Conrad  !  "     'Tis  Braddock  to  his  son, 

The  prop  he  thinks  to  lean  upon 

When  his  work  is  done. 


TJFI7ERSITT 


OLD  BRAD  DOCK. 


Conrad,  the  young  and  brave, 
Unflinching  meets  his  father's  eye  : 
"  Who  would  now  the  children  save, 
That  they  die  not  himself  must  die." 
On  his  white  face  no  touch  of  fear, 
But,  O,  it  is  so  sweet,  so  dear — 
Life  at  twenty  year  ! 

41  Father — Father  !  "    A  quick 
Embrace,  and  he  has  set  his  feet 
On  the  ladder.     Rolling  thick, 
The  flame-shot  smoke  chokes  all  the  street, 
So  blinds  one  only  has  descried 
Her  form  that,  thro'  its  dreadful  tide, 
Springs  to  Conrad's  side. 

Strong  she  is,  now,  as  he, 

Throbbing  with  love's  own  lion  might ; 

Strong  as  beautiful  is  she, 

And  Conrad's  arms  are  pinioned  tight. 


OLD  BRADDOCK. 


Far  thro'  the  fire,  sits  God  above  " — 
In  vain  he  pleads  ;  full  does  it  prove, 
Her  full  strength  of  love. 

Too  late  she  sets  him  free — 

High  overhead  his  father's  call : 

From  a  height  no  eye  can  see 

Calls  hoary  Braddock  down  the  wall, — 

Old  men  are  Death's,  let  him  destroy. 

Young  men  are  Life's,  Conrad,  my  boy — 

Life's  and  Love's,  my  boy  !  " 

Wilder  the  women's  cries, 

Hoarser  the  shouts  of  men  below  ; 

Sheets  of  fire  against  the  skies, 

Set  all  the  stricken  town  aglow. 

With  sweep  and  shriek,  with  rush  and  roar, 

The  flames  shut  round  old  Braddock  hoar— 

Braddock,  full  three-score. 


OLD  BRAD  DOCK. 


"  Save,  save  my  children,  save  !  " 
"  Ay,  ay,'  all  answer,  speak  as  one, 
"  If  man's  arm  can  from  the  grave 
Bring  back  your  babes,  it  will  be  done  ; 
Know  Braddock  still  is  worth  us  all — 
Hark — hark  !     It  is  his  own  brave  call,— - 
'  Back— back  from  the  wall ! ' " 

God  !  God,  that  it  should  be  1 

As  savagely  the  lashed  wind  veers, 

Fiercer  than  the  fiery  sea 

The  frantic  crowd  waves  hands,  and  cheers 

An  old  man  high  in  whirl  of  Hell ! 

The  children — how,  no  soul  can  tell — 

Braddock  holds  them  well. 

Shorn  all  that  good  gray  head 
With  snows  of  sixty  winters  sown  ; 
Griped  around  the  children's  bed, 
One  arm  is  shriveled  to  th«  bone  : 


OLD  BRADDOCK. 


Old  men  are  Death's,  let  him  destroy. 
Young  men  are  Life's,  Conrad,  my  boy, 
Life's  and  Love's,  my  boy  !  " 

Fire  !    Fire  in  Allentown  ! 
Though  'twas  a  hundred  years  ago, 
How  the  babes  were  carried  down, 
To-day  the  village  children  know. 
They  know  of  Braddock's  good  gray  head, 
They  know  the  last,  great  words  he  said, 
Know  how  he  fell— dead. 


THE  REVENGE. 

rT^HE  struggling  stars  dim  light 
The  palace  wall  and  pane  ; 
Why  chafes  the  dog,  to-night, 
In  bondage  of  his  chain  ? 

He  sees  a  pallid  face 

And  spectral  eyes  that  stare; 
Quicker  his  restless  pace, 

Stiffer  stands  his  hair. 

Dear  face  !  he  knows  it  well, 
Knows,  too,  that  vapor  hand  ; 

He  gives  a  grin  of  Hell, 
He  tries  his  brazen  band. 


THE  REVENGE. 


Again— once  more  ;  he 's  free  ! 

The  spectre  beckons  on, 
And,  swift  as  sight  may  be, 

Both  ghost  and  dog  are  gone. 

It  is  a  trackless  way 
Across  the  lowland  hoar, 

But,  oh,  the  spectre  gray 
Has  traveled  it  before  ! 


The  clock  has  struck  but  twice 
Since  she  was  in  her  tower  ; 

And  when  it  shall  strike  thrice, 
'Twill  be  the  midnight  hour. 

She  heard  a  voice  below 
Was  like  her  lover's  call  ; 

Soft  thither  did  she  go, 
She  passed  the  palace  wall. 


i4  THE  REVENGE. 

Down  like  a  dove  she  flew, 
All  soft  she  fluttered  down  : 

Cunning  the  craven  drew 
The  gentle  lady  down. 

God  blot,  blot  out  his  sin 
That  lured  the  lady  down — 

The  moon  is  old  and  thin 
In  wilds  beyond  the  town. 

He 's  hid  her  body  there, 

The  flesh  is  not  yet  cold  : 
"  Let  lady  fair  beware 

That  frowns  on  suitor  bold  ! 


"  Go,  tell  thy  high-born  folk 

Whose  quiet  bride  thou  art " — 
Never  more  he  spoke  ; 
The  dog  did  lap  his  heart. 


THE  REVENGE.  15 

The  cleared  stars  fling  their  light 

On  palace  wall  and  pane  : 
What  glistens  there  so  bright  ? 

It  is  the  empty  chain. 


THE  THREE  AGES. 


/^HEERLY  greet  me— I  am  young  ! 

Never  blithest  poet  sung 
Of  one  that  happier  found  his  way 
To  golden  gladness  of  the  day  : 
With  music  meet  me,  play  and  sing 
To  give  me  merry  welcoming  ! 

Life  is  fair,  and  love  is  sweet ; 
Hardly  may  you  see  my  feet, 
So  airy  light,  so  fleet  I  come, 
Henceforth  to  make  the  world  my  home. 
Strew  flowers,  lift  the  ringing  voice, 
Sing  songs  with  me — rejoice,  rejoice  I 


THE   THREE  A  GES.  17 

Glad  is  youth,  joyous  and  strong  ! 
Time  has  sworn  to  do  no  wrong  ; 
I  take  your  hand — come,  let  us  run 
With  laughter  in  the  open  sun  ! 
Feel  how  I  clasp  you,  hold  you  fast  ; 
For  life  is  kind,  and  love  will  last. 

Nay,  shake  not  the  doubtful  head, 
Withered  Sorrow — he  is  dead  ; 
Young  Joy  has  buried  him  so  deep 
Never  again  shall  mourner  weep. 
Yes,  life  is  kind,  will  grow  more  dear 
From  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year. 

Gaily  greet  me — viols,  play  ; 
Hours,  go  dancing  down  the  day, 
And  I  will  with  you  laughing  run 
Like  meadow-brook  at  rise  of  sun. 
Ho,  all  come  follow  ;  sorrow 's  past, 
And  life  is  sweet,  and  love  will  last ! 


i8  THE   THREE  AGES. 


II. 

Whither  art  faring  ?    Is  one  half 
The  road-room  not  enough  ?    You  laugh  ; 
Tis  a  loon's  answer.     Do  not  stop, 
Be  off !    Ay,  spin  it  like  a  top 
The  way  they  go  that  chase  a  smile  ; 
Till  night  is  but  a  little  while, 
And  Fool-town  's  east  good  twenty  mile. 

Twice  I  've  bid  you  be  gone.     You  heard  ; 
But  heavens  !  a  callow,  limp-necked  bird 
Just  out  the  shell,  all  belly,  beak— 
Once  more  I  '11  have  compassion.     Speak, 
Then — briefly  ;   Time,  though  old,  is  fast 
And  tireless. — "  Sorrow,  it  is  past, 
And  life  is  sweet,  and  love  will  last." — 

Enough.     You  Ve  yet  hard  hills  to  climb. 
Your  mother  wasted  nine  months'  time 


THE   THREE  AGES. 


Out  of  the  twelve,  the  year  she  bore 
A  son.    One  word — you  '11  wish  no  more — : 
Play  bubbles,  blow,  puff  out  of  breath, 
Hug  life,  swallow  each  word  she  saith — 
Boy,  did  you  ever  hear  of  death  ? 

I  thought  it— gone.     That  last  hard  word 
Pricked  in  the  crop  of  my  young  bird. 
How  gay  he  skims  it  on  to  town  ! 
The  jaunty  twitching  of  his  gown, 
His  curvets — truly  that  is  grace  ; 
And  his  as  plump,  ungrooved  a  face 
As  any's  of  the  Fool-town  race. 

With  savage  thrust  I  shoved  him  by, 

But  such  as  he  is,  that  was  I  : 

All  smirks  and  nods,  and  faith  sublime 

In  every  cruel  trick  that  time 

Did  play  me.     Forty  year  at  school, 


THE   THREE  AGES. 


I  measure  with  too  ready  rule — 
Ah,  well,  peace  to  the  pretty  fool. 


III. 

The  sun  is  low,  once  more  he  nears  his  rest, 
And  dark,  dulling  the  purple  of  the  west, 
Prepares  the  way  of  night.     Upon  the  hill 
The  night-wind,  loosed,  now  wanders  at  its  will 
With  moaning.     The  clear  call  at  break  of  day 
•Echos,  a  sigh,  when  night  has  passed  away  : 
The  dawn,  the  noon,  then  gloom  upon  the  gold, 
And  music  fallen  a-wailing.     I  am  old  ; 
Nature  misleads  me  not  as  in  my  youth, 
She  pities  me  my  years,  and  speaks  the  truth- 
Wise  mother,  tend'rest  when  the  leaping  heart 
Is  slowed,  and  Joy  has  played  her  careless  part.' 
The  wind  is  louder  ;  like  a  beast  it  growls, 
Or,  sweeping  down  the  gorges,  fitful  howls  ; 


THE    THREE  AGES. 


The  windows  shudder,  while  the  taller  trees 
Whip  wildly  in  the  wood  :  I  take  mine  ease. — 
Old  winds,  roar  on  !     I  am  as  grim  and  hoar 
As  are  your  eldest  ;  barred  mine  oaken  door, 
Ay,  steel  of  years  is  barred  across  my  breast : 
Old  winds,  ye  cannot  touch  an  old  man's  rest. — 
Serene  his  spirit,  steady  is  his  head 
That  travels  best  the  highway  toward  the  dead. 
To  make  this  sober  journey  are  we  sent ; 
If,  chance,  a  momentary  ornament 
We  be  besides,  'tis  but  a  fire-fly's  glow, 
A  flash,  which  does  not  light  the  way  we  go. 
For  this,  and  only  this,  lives  every  one  : 
Calmly  to  work,  to  rest  when  work  is  done. 
To-day,  a  youth  passed  by,  singing  along 
The  highway  ;  merry  as  a  brook's  his  song  ; 
Where,  caroling,  he  hastened  into  sight, 
There  shone  a  glistening  mirror  of  delight : 
So  fair  his  face,  so  tuneful,  smooth,  his  tongue, 
I  know  not  if  he  sweeter  looked  or  sung. 


THE   THREE  AGJSS. 


So  did  he  look  and  sing,  thoughtless  and  gay, 
To-morrow  to  be  sad  as  glad,  to-day. 
There  met  him  as  he,  laughing,  leapt  and  ran, 
One  come  to  middle  years,  a  dark-browed  man  : 
Matching  his  frown  against  the  weanling's  smiles, 
With  dagger  words  he  stabbed  at  fortune's  wiles 
As  they  were  bodies  to  be  whittled  down. 
This   man,   years   since,   did  win  him  high  re 
nown 

As  fame  goes  ;  having  won,  he  sudden  paused, 
Disowned  his  honors,  saying  they  had  caused 
But  loss.     Angered  he  rose,  without  delay 
Forever  from  old  follies  turned  away — 
Away  from  olden  follies  unto  new  ; 
For  rage  holds  not  the  golden  balance  true. — 

But  why,  forsooth,  sit  I  and  muse  on  these  ? 
Impossible  to  share  with  them  mine  ease. 
Indifferent,  too,  are  old  men,  though  we  feel 
Somewhat  as  into  shadow  slow  we  steal. 


THE   THREE  AGES. 


Age  is  indifferent  :  in  the  eyes  of  Thought 
There  be  few  tears,  his  tightened  lips  smile  not. 
And  yet,  O  Youth,  all  laughter — Man,  all  war, 
These  white  hairs,  they  must  »sk,  What  for— What 
for? 


HOKAN,   THE   HERMIT. 

T  HAVE  not  dwelt  with  men,  but  have  held  close 

Unto  thy  breast ;  Mother,  remember  this. 
The  earth  is  gray,  and  yonder  climbing  sun 
Is  old,  but  both  keep  yet  the  youthful  green 
And  the  young  gold.     These  are  my  rightful  kin  ; 
Why  me,  why  cut  me  off  and  touch  them  not  ? 
If  time's  insidious  chiseling  mark  my  cheek, 
If  flood  of  years  wash  white  these  hairs — to  die 
For  that  !     I  say,  I  have  not  lived  with  men, 
Why  die  with  them  ?    Surely  my  shoulders  hold 
As  they  were  set,  unbent  by  packed  care  ; 
I  walk  upright,  my  sleep  is  long  and  sound, 
Rest  lays  her  thighs  to  mine  in  my  still  bed. 
Only  dead  hope  should  rot.     Wait  till  I  wail 


HO  KAN,    THE  HERMIT.  35 

For  woe  that  flattens  me  like  a  great  stone, 
Bear  with  me  till  I  rail  against  my  lot, 
Till  first  I  whine.     You  take  not  yon  gray  rock : 
He,  too,  is  old.     Mother,  remember  me. 
Strike  down  the  sapless  oak,  the  spineless  grass 
Which  withers  ;  ay,  lick  up  the  trickling  stream, — 
But  shall  the  sea  be  dried,  wilt  stop  the  stars  ? 
Older  are  these,  older  than  I,  and  less  ; 
Take  them  or  take  not  me.     Th'  Etruscan  king 
Did  bind  the  living  hand  to  hand,  and  face" 
To  face,  fast  to  the  dead,  there  let  them  die. 
You  will  not  so.     Mother,  you  are  not  hard, 
Like  kings,  and  I  am  not  as  other  men. 
Last  night  the  moon  did  stop  on  yonder  hill, 
Did  pause  and  gaze  as  one  that  looks  her  last 
On  the  beloved  :  Mother,  remember  me. 


THE   HOUSE  OF   PLEASURE. 

'  I  "'HE  sun  burns  not  with  purer  gold 

Than  flamed  that  palace  famed  of  old  : 
Proudest  of  all  the  gorgeous  piles  of  slumber, 
Around  me  shot  its  columns  tall  ; 
Glory  poured  over  floor  and  wall 
Thick,  dazing  splendors  without  name  or  number, 

Anon,  rich  singing  rose  and  fell  : 

"  O  youth,"  it  ran,  "we  love  thee  well, 

We    love    thee  well ! "     And    I    could    feel    their 

breathing, 

So  near  the  singing  maidens  drew — 
The  winged  maidens,  as  they  flew, 
Singing,  dancing,  their  arms  like  wild  vines  wreath 
ing. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PLEASURE.  27 

Once,  when  the  rapturous  song  ran  low, 

One  pressed  me  to  her  breast,  aglow, 

Whereon  I  sank,  bewildered,  dizzy  clinging  ; 

My  face  pressed  hard  its  pillow  warm, 

While  still  swept  on  the  blended  storm 

Of  light  and  laughter,  of  dancing  and  of  singing. 


O,  long  and  long  there  did  I  lie, 
Until  the  day  did  fade  and  die  ; 
And  when  I  v/oke,  fled  was  the  rapturous  measure, 
Not  one  sweet  voice,  not  one  lithe  form  ; 
No  more  the  live  breast,  soft  and  warm, 
But  cold  dead  stone — the  throne  of  the  House  of 
Pleasure. 


The  throne  it  was,  for  through  the  night, 

I  read  in  letters  burning  bright, 

Like  low  stars  in  the  pine-tops, — Thou  beholdest 

The  king  of  the  Realm  of  Pleasure — the  king, 


THE  HOUSE   OF  PLEASURE. 


High  lord  of  youth  and  reveling, 

Sovereign  of  sovereigns  from  gray  years  the  oldest. 

"  Dread  shape,"  I  sighed,  "  art  thou  the  king  ; 

To  thee,  at  last,  does  Beauty  bring 

Her  sons  of  mirth,  her  daughters  dancing,  singing  ?  " 

Behold  the  King  of  Joy  !  he  said. 

Lo,  there  were  no  eyes  in  his  head, 

And  round  him  vapors  of  the  vault  were  clinging — 

Vapors  that  made  a  dreadful  veil, 
And,  as  the  light  seeds  start  and  sail 
Along  the  summer  wind,  shape  followed  shape 
About  in  it :  with  gesture  slow 
The  king  did  sign,  and  they  did  go, 
And  a  serpent  looped,  and  swung  from  the  king's 
nape. 

"  Tore  God,"  I  cried,  "  thou  king  of  bone, 
Canst  call  this  temple — all — thine  own  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PLEASURE.  2g 

How    old  art   thou  ?    he  asked  ;    and  the  serpent 

turning, 

Reared  its  slim  head  as  if  to  hear. 
I  answered,  "  Record  me  twenty  year." — 
'  Tis  done  :  behold  the  record,  yonder,  burning. 

On  the  cold  white  steps,  facing  the  throne, 
I  lay  before  the  king  of  bone, 
And  counted  the  twenty  tapers  faintly  burning  : 
Fixed  in  a  glass  of  slipping  sand, 
Twenty  pale  shapes  had  them  in  the  hand, 
Who  a  noiseless  march  slow  round  and  round  'gan 
turning. 

The  first  shape  in  his  misty  hand 

Held  up  the  taper,  set  in  sand, 

Whereat  the  king  signed  the  sign  there  is  no  denying : 

Upheld,  I  watched  it  prick  the  air, 

I  saw  it  drop  to  the  sand,  and  flare, 

And  it  was  smothered  ere  I  knew  'twas  dying. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PLEASURE. 


As  the  first  shape  came  the  second  came, 

And  held  on  high  the  fated  flame — 

Again  the  direful  sign  there  is  no  denying  : 

The  chilling,  dim-lit  stone  was  wet 

As  with  the  drench  of  the  last  sweat, 

Where  I  stared,  dumb,  before  the  monarch  lying. 

Noiseless,  the  filmy  shapes  filed  on 

Till,  all  save  one,  the  flames  were  gone  : 

A  moment  more — the  final  sign  would  be  given, 

But  one  more  wave  of  the  fleshless  hand, 

And  the  last  would  sink  to  the  slipping  sand, 

And  my  soul  go  forth  and  be  as  the  leaf  wind-driven. 

I  clutched  at  the  cold  glazed  stone,  and  cried, — 

"  Now,  monstrous  king,  art  thou  defied, 

Scorned  in  her  name  whose  I  am  from  the  morrow  !  " 

I  spoke  her  name,  and,  as  I  spoke, 

In  the  ghastly  place  a  great  light  broke, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PLEASURE. 


And  in  the  midst  stood,  bowed,  the  dark  queen, 
Sorrow. 

I  clung  to  her  black  robe,  and  prayed,— 
"  Let  yon  sand  slip  not,  bid  the  flame  be  stayed  ! " 
The  sand  slackened,  and  to  a  mournful  measure 
The  flame  spread  bright  and  wide  till,  at  last, 
His  pale  train  sank,  and  the  crowned  skull  passed, 
And  the  dropt  snake  writhed  on  the  site  of  the 
House  of  Pleasure. 


THE  WHITE  TOWER. 

"D  UILT  in  my  dreams,  a  white  tower  rose, 

And  she  that  was  its  light  stood  at  the  door 
The  beams  of  moon  and  star  fell  pale  around  her, 
The  four  winds  silent  gathered. 

Ere  long,  slow  floated  tones  far-borne, 
As  of  a  voice  had  wandered  out  of  Heaven, 
Burdened  with  melody  no  ear  could  reach  to, 
Only  for  spirits'  hearing. 

Even  as  it  came  the  wide  air  curled 
Upon  itself  till,  like  a  mighty  shell, 
Trembling,  it  swung  and  sweetly  murmured — mur 
mured, 
Filled  with  immortal  music. 


THE   WHITE   TOWER.  33 

Full  in  the  white-tower  door  stood  she 
About  whose  feet  the  beams  of  moon  and  star 
Fell  wan  as  ashes  ;  motionless,  unheeding, 
She  stood,  as  it  were,  the  statue 

Of  some  stopt  soul  held  fast  between 
The  seen  and  the  unseen — a  spirit  clothed 
In  radiant  semblance  of  its  mortal  vesture, 
Midway  'twixt  earth  and  Heaven. 

Now  sped,  swift  as  the  hunter's  shaft, 
A  cry  from  earth,  her  lover's  cry  of  pain 
Sent  up  from  loss  unutterable— last  anguish 
Of  a  great  heart,  so  broken. — 

Still  stood,  unchanged,  the  high  white  tower, 
But  in  the  door  no  more  the  shape  of  flame  : 
A  track  of  fire  ran  from  it,  burning  earthward — 
Spake  Heaven,  They  come  together. 


THEN. 

TV  T  OT  yet,  O  Love  !  not  yet. 

Till  from  high  brightness  of  the  past 
Not  one  sole  beam  of  splendor  last, 
Lift  not  thine  eyes  to  mine, 
Take  not  my  hand  in  thine. 
O  Love  !  not  yet — 
Not  yet. 

Not  yet,  O  Love  !  not  yet. 
Till  in  the  future  thou  canst  see, 
In  soulless  thing  or  soul,  but  me, 
Bid  not  my  held  heart  break 
Its  fetters  for  thy  sake. 

O  Love  !  not  yet— 
Not  yet. 


THEN.  35 


Not  yet,  O  Love  !  not  yet. 

Till  the  full  present  shut  thee  round, 

Wall  in  thy  soul  from  sight  and  sound 

Between  thy  heart  and  me, 

I  must  not  follow  thee. 

O  Love  !  not  yet — 
Not  yet. 

But  when  this  is,  Oh,  then, 
Though  'twixt  us  stretch  the  mighty  sea, 
Thine  arms  will  feel  they  're  folding  me  ! 
Thy  heart  emptied,  swept  clean 
As  though  love  had  not  been, 
My  love,  Oh,  then — 
Then,  Then  ! 


APART. 

A  PART— too  hard  that  word  to  say. 
^^  'Twere  death  to  me  to  take  away 
What  I  do  love  ;  myself  were  taken. 
Never  was  love  like  mine  forsaken  : 
When  thou  art  gone,  'twill  be  too  late 
For  me  to  feel  my  fate. 

Thou  going,  I  shall  going  be, 
O  Love  !  beyond  the  loss  of  thee  ; 
Thou  gone,  I  '11  not  be  left  to  grieve  : 
Love  cannot  true  love  living  leave. 
Apart — to  me  'twere  idly  said  ; 
They  hear  not  that  are  dead. 


A  DAY  DREAM. 

"HP WAS  not  'neath  spectral  moon, 

But  in  the  day's  high  noon, 
That,  pillowed  on  the  grass, 
I  saw  a  vision  pass. 

Strange  quiet  folded  round, 
Strange  silence,  close— profound  ; 
Sweet  peace,  peace  sweet  and  deep, 
Bade  every  trouble  sleep. 

O  Spirit !  stay  with  me, 
Lying  all  quietly  : 
If  this  is  death,"  I  said, 
Be  my  lot  with  the  dead." 


38  A   DAY  DREAM. 

The  shape  with  others  passed, 
Each  fainter  than  the  last  ; 
And — dreadful  was  the  roar — 
I  heard  the  day  once  more. 


ON  THE  WILD  WAYS   OF  THE   NIGHT. 

A  LAS,  who  did  it,  Fall  wind,  sighing  ; 

Who  struck  her  cheek  so  white 
That  she  walks  there — glides,  a-dying, 
On  the  wild  ways  of  the  night  ? 

Night  wind,  no  longer  let  her  wander  ; 

Poor  ghost,  that  she  should  freeze  ! 
Call  her,  bid  her  over  yonder 

To  the  shelter  of  the  trees. 

The  bitter,  oh,  th"  unpitying  weather  ! 

Ere  moon  and  stars  be  dead, 
Blow  the  yellow  leaves  together, 

Night  wind,  make  the  maid  a  bed. 


NIGHT   WIND   OF   FALL. 
I. 

nPO-NIGHT,  the  might  of  the  wind  ! 

Let  him  listen  that  dare  : 
Hark — hark — the  cry  i'  the  mind, 
Like  the  wail  in  the  branches  bare  ! 

Each  thought  upcaught  by  the  gale, 

Torn  from  memory's  mold, 
The  heart's  dead  wander  and  wail 

With  the  flying  leaves,  a-cold. 

II. 

Hear  the  bare  boughs  sigh 
As  the  winds  go  by  : 


NIGHT  WIND  OF  FALL. 


Never  more  hopeless  moan, — 
Lone,  so  lone  !  " 

See,  the  folding  cloud 
Is  the  dead  moon's  shroud  : 
Over  and  over  the  moan,— 
'  Lone,  so  lone  !  " 


SONG   OF  THE  SEA. 

T)  LACK  is  the  night,  the  shore  lights  glare, 

The  cries  at  the  hearthside — what  is  the  prayer? 
'Tis  wind  and  darkness,  tears  and  moan, 
'Tis  waiting  and  wail  on  the  shore,  alone  : 
God  be 
With  the  ships  at  sea  ! 

Round  the  rock-lights  and  down  the  bay, 
Why  comes  the  wild  wind,  ay,  what  does  he  say  ? 
He  comes  to  mourn  with  the  souls  on  shore, 
For  those  that  will  follow  the  waters  no  more  : 

Wail,  wail 

For  the  ships  that  sail ! 


THE  VOICE. 

TV  T  O  birds  sing, 

Tranced  the  air  ; 
The  lattice  vines  close  cling, 
Close  keeps  the  shadow  there. 

Shade  by  shade, 

Drifts  of  gray 
Slow  dull  the  footprints  made 

Where  passed  the  golden  day. 

Earth  and  sky, 

Deep  their  rest — 
Was  that  the  wind  went  by, 

Or  a  soul,  escaped  the  breast  ? 


INSANE. 


TV  /f  Y  darling  hopes  went  sailing  on  a  summer  sea, 
Went  sailing,  happy  sailing,  far  away  from 


All  in  a  shining  boat,  away — away — from  me, 
Far  did  my  dear  ones  float  along  the  summer  sea. 

O,  then  this  hair  was  brown  ;  O,  then  this  face  was 
fair  ! 

The  boat  danced  up  and  down  like  a  leaf  upon  the 
air. 

And  bright  was  then  my  eye — there  could  no  bright 
er  be  ; 

I  saw  the  black  fiend  fly,  a-scowling  on  the  sea. 


INSANE.  45 


White  as  this  hair  is  white,  the  white  foam  came 

ashore  ; 
The  boat  passed  out  of  sight,  I  heard  the  storm-beast 

roar  : 
White  as  this  hair  is  white,  the  white  foam  came 

ashore, 
The  black  fiend  laughed  outright— my  darlings  come 

no  more. 


THE  SHADOW. 

T  T  ELEN,  you  once  were  young  ;  with  viny  grace 

Enwreathed,  the  fairest  of  your  gentle  race  ; 
Now,  Helen,  in  yon  palace  I  may  see 
The  prosperous  sire,  the  children  at  your  knee. 

Perhaps  my  sight  played  false  the  night— our  last- 
When  in  the  bright  moonshine  a  spectre  passed ; 
But,  Helen,  gentle  Helen,  is  it  peace, 
Do  no  dreams  come,  no  longings  for  release  ? 

Helen,  our  love — went  it  like  summer  weather, 
The  golden  dreams  and  golden  days  together  ? 
Soft  mother,  which  the  shadow,  after  all, 
You  or  that  following  on  your  costly  wall  ? 


THE  SHAPE   UNSEEN. 

"D  ESIDE  two  lovers  stands  a  shape, 

A  watchful  shape,  unseen  ; 
His  ear  is  at  their  hearts, 
His  hands  their  hands  between. 

The  sigh,  the  vow — he  heeds  not  these, 

The  heart  is  all  his  care  ; 
The  lips  that  kiss  may  curse, 

The  heart— he  hearkens  there. 

Cry  not  to  him  ;  as  kind  as  wise, 

He  will  not  idly  pain  : 
The  hands  he  tears  apart, 

They  should  not  clasp  again. 


BACK   OF   IT  ALL    IS   FATE. 

HE  son  of  strength  may  strike  and  win, 

Or  to  the  hungry  dust  go  down  ; 
The  full  blood  flows,  and  the  toils  begin, 
To  end — God  knows — in  rags  or  crown  : 
Early  and  late 
Back  of  it  all  is  Fate. 

Love's  high-born  daughter— like  the  rose 

She  plucks  or  passes,  so  is  she  ; 
To  be  worn  upon  the  breast — God  knows— 
Or  under  foot  trod  ruthlessly  : 
Early  and  late 
Back  of  it  all  is  Fate. 


BLEEDING  HEART  AND  BROKEN  WINGS. 

A     BARD,  unheard,  sang  sweetest  lay, 

(Our  life — it  is  a  little  day  ;) 
The  death-glaze  made  his  bright  eye  dim, 
When  all  the  world  called  after  him. 

A  maiden  gave  her  heart  away, 
(Our  life— it  is  a  bitter  day,) 
And  there  was  scandal  thro'  the  town : 
Only  the  bell-toll  hushed  it  down. 

The  maiden  loves,  the  poet  sings, 
(Dear  bleeding  heart,  poor  broken  wings  !) — 
Oh,  that  th'  indifferent  grave  could  hear, 
The  living  turn  the  heedless  ear  ! 


DIRGE. 

O  WEET  flower  in  perfect  bloom, 
Thy  leaves  shall  withered  be  ; 
Lone  winds  above  thy  tomb, 

Shall  nightly  sigh  with  me — 

Sigh  with  me. 

Blithe  brook  of  merry  song, 
Thy  goal 's  the  moaning  sea  ; 

Thy  laughter  spent,  ere  long 
Thou  'It  mourn,  ay,  moan  with  me- 
Moan  with  me. 

All  days,  with  love's  short  day, 
Steal  on  to  darkness  deep  : 

Beauty  shall  pass  away, 
Nor  mirth  her  measures  keep- 
Weep,  oh,  weep  ! 


DEAR   MAID,    PALE  AS   THE   PALE  WILD 
DOVE. 

Tp\EAR  maid,  pale  as  the  pale  wild  dove, 
Wand'ring  the  silent  ways,  alone,— 
Wide  up  and  down  the  land  of  love 
Why  made  you  moan — why  made  you  moan? 

My  list'ning  heart,  it  ever  hears, 

As  in  the  summers  long  ago : 
Shy,  sweet  wild  dove,  flown  from  the  years, 

Oh,  what  strange  hurt  did  grieve  you  so  ? 


VOICE  OF  THE   PAST. 

T  T  AST  heard  the  murmuring  aves  said 

In  forest  cloister,  overhead  ; 
Hast  heard  those  voices  low  that  fare, 
Unpiloted,  along  the  heights  of  air — 

Far  melodies  too  faint  for  light, 

On  upper  pathways  of  the  night  ? 

The  Past  calls  in  so  sweet  a  tone 

These  strive  and  die,  nor  make  it  once  their  own. 


MEMORY. 

"I  T  7OULD  you  Love's  fairest  daughter  see, 

Yonder  she  is — sweet  Memory  : 
A  statue  of  unconscious  grace, 
She  stands  with  bowed,  averted  face. 


CALM. 

T  T  AST  thou  been  down  into  the  depths  of  thought 
Until  the  things  of  time  and  sense  are  naught ; 
Hast  sunk — sunk — in  that  tideless  under-deep 
Fathoms  below  the  little  reach  of  sleep  ? 

Dark,  there,  and  silence  ;  sound  is  not,  nor  sun  ; 
The  heaving  breast,  the  beating  heart,  have  done  : 
They  lie  no  stiller  whose  stopt  pulse  and  breath 
Respect  the  dread  repose  in  realms  of  death. 

Hast  visited  below,  where  he  must  go 
That  would  wisdom's  last-yielded  secret  know  ? 
Hast  been  a  guest  where,  lost  to  smiles  and  tears, 
The  quiet  eye  looks  on  beyond  the  years  ? 


CALM. 


Hast  thou  been  down  into  the  depths  of  thought 
Until  the  things  of  time  and  sense  are  naught  ? 
Then  toil  and  pain  blend  sweet  as  evening  psalm, 
Then  doubt  is  whelmed  in  hope  and  care  in  calm 


THE  STRONG. 

"|T\OST  deem  him  weak  that  owns  his  strength  is 
tried? 

Nay,  we  may  safely  lean  on  him  that  grieves  : 
The  pine  has  immemorially  sighed, 

Th'  enduring  poplar's  are  the  trembling  leaves. 

To  feel,  and  bow  the  head,  is  not  to  fear, 
To  cheat  with  jest — that  is  the  coward's  art : 

Beware  the  laugh  that  battles  back  the  tear, 
He's  false  to  all  that 's  traitor  to  his  heart. 

He  of  great  deeds  does  grope  amid  the  throng 
Like  him  whose  steps  toward  Dagon's  temple  bore  ; 

There 's  ever  something  sad  about  the  strong — 
A  look,  a  moan,  like  that  on  ocean's  shore. 


THE  DEAD   HERO. 

I. 

1VT  ATURE'S  large  souls,  like  the  large  stars,  are 
few, 

And  he  was  of  them  ;  cloud-crowned  Thessaly 

Bore  not  a  truer,  nobler  son  than  he 
That  with  great  need  in  equal  greatness  grew, 

Grappled  with  giant  wrongs,  and  overthrew, 
Then,  in  the  peaceful  days  he  made  to  be, — 
The  war-born  third  of  our  immortal  three, — 

Remembered  not  the  dreadful  sword  he  drew. 

II. 

In  his  strength  a  soldier,  in  his  rest  a  sage  ; 
His  youth  went  in  war — was  it  peace  in  his  age? 


58  THE  DEAD  HERO. 

The  dead  tell  no  tales,  but  a  voice  in  my  ears 
Says,  "Valor  belongs  to  the  noiseless  years." 

Honor  to  the  dead  !     A  hero  is  gone. 
Hang  up  his  good  sword,  put  his  cerements  on  ; 
Chance  Yonder  they  know  but  how  he  fought 
In  the  thick  of  peace,  in  the  still  of  thought. 


TO  THE  BITTER   END. 


T    EST  they  should  mock  his  woe,  he  shed  no  tears, 
Lest  they  should  brand  him  coward,  made  no 

moan  ; 
Mute  as  themselves,  he  did  endure  his  years, 

Eating  his  bread  as  it  were  not  a  stone  : 
Mute  as  themselves,  he  did  endure  his  years 


Ambition  masked  in  tame  humility 

That  yokes  for  equal  draught  the  ox  with  man, 
None  heard  him  speak  again  of  what  might  be : 

True  to  his  toil,  with  neither  hope  nor  plan, 
None  heard  him  speak  again  of  what  might  be. — 


60  TO   THE  BITTER  END. 

Fate,  yoked,  and  goaded  by  your  vassals  all, 
You  could  not  wring  from  him  the  craven's  cry 

Patient  as  are  the  cattle  of  the  stall, 
Dumb  as  the  tumbled  clods  that  on  him  lie, 

So  patient,  dumb,  he  toiled — so  did  he  fall. 


HE  THAT  HEARS  THE  VOICE. 

npHRICE  blest  is  he  that  hears  the  voice 

Above  belittling  strife — 
The  rolling  psalm  as  they  rejoice, 
Th'  exultant  Sons  of  Life. 

He  does  not  doubt ;  he  seeth  clear, 

And  walketh  in  his  trust : 
With  neither  faltering  nor  fear, 

He  meeteth  what  he  must. 

To  him  sorrow  is  sweet  as  mirth, 

And  toil  is  one  with  rest ; 
The  death  groan  is  the  cry  at  birth, 

The  grave  the  mother  breast. 


6a  HE   THAT  HEARS   THE   VOICE. 

Through  veil  of  darkness  wasted  thin, 
To  him  the  vision  comes  : 

He  sees  them  that  pass  out  and  in 
The  high,  immortal  homes. 


N 


FAITH. 

O  help  in  all  the  stranger-land, 
O  fainting  heart,  O  failing  hand? 
There 's  a  morning  and  a  noon, 
And  the  evening  cometh  soon. 


The  way  is  endless,  friendless  ?    No  ; 

God  sitteth  high  to  see  below. 

There  's  a  morning  and  a  noon, 
And  the  evening  cometh  soon. 

Look  yonder  on  the  purpling  West : 
Ere  long  the  glory  and  the  rest. 

There  's  a  morning  and  a  noon, 
And  the  evening  cometh  soon. 


AT  LAST. 

RIFTING  slow  and  aimlessly, 

A  mist  comes  on  across  the  sea ; 
It  floats  against  a  sunny  hill, 
Folds  round  it,  and  is  still. 

Onward — onward,  reach  by  reach, 
A  great  wave  shoulders  toward  the  beach 
A  mighty  rush — it  gains  the  shore, 
Nor  roves  nor  moans  it  more, 

Over  field  and  steepled  town 
A  bird  goes  flying  up  and  down  ; 
Soon  comes  the  friendly  tv/ilight  hour — 
It  finds  a  quiet  bower. 


AT  LAST.  65 


Knotted  was  yon  sleeper's  brow, 
Lo,  it  is  as  the  snowdrift,  now  : 
Sweeter  sleeps  care  by  kind  death  kissed, 
Than  bird,  or  wave,  or  mist. 


THE  USE  OF  SORROW. 

TV 7  OT  from  Joy's  hand  the  boons  for  aye  ; 

He  gives  but  toys,  pleasing,  to-day, 
To-morrow,  willing  put  away  : 
Only  wise  Sorrow  holds  the  heart, 
Gives  gifts  with  which  we  cannot  part. 
Best  friend  is  Grief.     Believe,  believe 
It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  grieve  ; 
Knowledge  and  pleasure  dwell  apart, 
Wisdom  mates  with  the  broken  heart. 
Only  the  eyes  cleansed  oft  with  tears 
Perceive  the  meaning  of  the  years : 
Unto  the  sight  thus  purified, 
The  gates  of  mystery  open  wide  ; 
And  patient  watching  makes  to  know 
This  life  and  that  to  which  we  go. 


REST  UPON  THE  HILL. 

'T^HE  angle,  multiplied, 

Does  in  the  circle  cease  ; 
Life's  thousand  grievances 
Round,  by  and  by,  in  peace, 

The  dismal  mist  below, 
Is  radiant  cloud  above  ; 

The  spirit  darkened  here, 
Shall  shine  with  heavenly  love. 

Skyward  ascends  the  stream 
That  moves  the  humble  mill  ; 

We  that  in  valleys  toil, 
Shall  rest  upon  the  hill. 


THE  GLORIES   OF  TWO  WORLDS. 

HE  spirit  that  delights  in  visions  fair, 

Wherever  it  may  seek,  will  find  them  there  : 
Mountain  and  valley,  woodland,  stream  and  field, 
They  touch  the  heart  of  care— the  hurt  is  healed. 


T 


Beauty  is  nature's  Ruth  ;  close  does  she  cling 

Unto  her  mother,  ever  following  ; 

And  yet  to  nature  is  there  never  given 

One  little  downward  look  from  eyes  of  Heaven. 

Two  glories— not  of  earth,  though  deemed  her  own- 
Are  gazed  upon  from  splendor  of  the  throne  : 
We  claim  two  shapes  angels  lean  out  to  see— 
The  aged  saint,  the  child  upon  her  knee. 


MY  CHILDREN. 

TV  /T  Y  precious  buds  of  flesh  and  blood, 

That  cling  about  my  knee, 
I  dread  the  pressing  thoughts  that  dwell 
Upon  the  years  to  be. 

They  say,  more  kind  the  early  blight 

Than  are  the  ripening  suns  ; 
They  say,  to  blossom  is  to  fall, 

My  sweet  unfolding  ones. 

Only  the  children's  hidden  hearts 
Go  down,  unhurt,  to  rest "  !  — 

I  tremble  at  the  voice,  and  hold 
You  closer  to  my  breast. 


MY   DREAMS. 

A  S  I  look  forward  down  the  years, 

I  see  less  smiling  and  more  tears  ; 
I  see  the  sunlight  slip  away, 
And  shadow  wrap  the  shortened  day. 
Far,  fitfully  the  hill-top  gleams, 
Fainter  the  music  of  the  streams  : 
O  Time  !  take  them — the  music,  beams, 
But  leave  my  dreams — my  dreams. 


Old  friends,  dear  ones — I  may  not  say 
When  they  shall  tire,  and  drop  away  ; 
I  would  not  speak  for  mine  own  strength, 
Nor  fix  the  shadow's  growing  length. 


MY  DREAMS. 


I  ask  but  that  till,  one  by  one, 
Life's  last  flames  flicker  and — are  done, 
Thou  put  not  out  mine  old  heart-gleams 
O  Time  !  take  last  my  dreams. 


A  WISH. 

/^VNE  slowly  toils  his  way  to  fame, 

And  wins,  well  earned,  an  envied  name 
One  vaults  into  eternity — 
Got  of  the  gods,  strong-limbed  is  he. 

A  few  do  quench  ambition's  fire 

With  ample  mantle  of  the  sire  ; 

The  thousands  ask,  when  time 's  no  more, 

Safe  guidance  to  the  Golden  Shore. 

When  my  poor  self  is  laid  away, 
I  would  the  shepherd  boy  might  say, 
— Tuning  his  pipe  less  merrily — 
A  bough  turns  sere  in  Arcady. 


MY  CHOICE. 

T  'D  rather  be 

'Neath  a  greenwood  tree, 
With  a  song  and  a  handful  of  daisies, 
Than  the  darling  of  victory 
In  the  blaze  of  the  wide  world's  praises. 

I  'd  rather  ride 

On  the  wings  inside, 

Which  waft  where  the  world  may  not  after, 

Than  fold  fair  Fame  as  a  bride, 

To  feed  on  her  sighs  and  her  laughter. 


MY  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

£  in  the  East  or  in  the  West, 

Where  shall  I  build  my  bird  a  nest; 
Northward  or  southward — whither  roam 
To  build  my  little  love  a  home  ? 

Up  yonder,  in  the  clean,  sweet  air 

I  think  that  I  could  keep  her,  there, 

Too  much  an  angel  for  the  ground, 

For  Heaven  somewhat  too — warm  and  round. 


DEEP  WITHIN  THE   FOREST  GRAY. 


T^VEEP  within  the  forest  gray, 

Sings  a  bird  to  the  going  day  : 
'Tis  her  song,  lost  as  she  passed  that  way, 

Hark,  the  low  wind  in  the  firs  ! 

In  their  tops  it  lightly  stirs  : 

'Tis  her  sigh—  ay,  night,  that  sigh  is  hers. 

Perfume  gathers  on  the  air, 

Deep,  rich  heart  of  roses  there  — 

'Tis  her  breath,  sweet  love  herself,  at  prayer. 


IN  TWILIGHT  LAND. 

A     MOUTH  like  hers  you  cannot  doubt 

That  Love  himself  designed  ; 
The  lips  alway  a  little  out 
From  pushing  sweet,  behind. 

The  quiet  moon  rules  yonder  blue, 

Love  lights  her  bluer  eye  : 
Which  heaven,  which  choose  betwixt  the  two  ? 

For  me— the  nearer  sky. 

The  face  Hope  sees  leaned  from  above — 

That  is  her  kind  of  face  ; 
Movement  to  music  born  of  love — 

That  may  suggest  her  grace, 


IN  TWILIGHT  LAND.  77 

Soft  up  and  down  the  twilight  land, 

From  all  the  world  apart, 
—Although  I  hold  her  little  hand— 

I  lead  her  by  the  heart. 


WAITING. 

E  fields  fold  in  silence  the  ripened  sheaves, 
The  bright  moon  breaks  on  the  swinging  leaves, 
The  dark's  great  daisies  are  blowing  above, 
O,  leap  to  my  side,  my  Love— my  Love  ! 

You  've  said  not  a  gem  in  the  blue  below 
But,  on  my  neck,  it  would  lose  the  glow  J 
You  've  said  no  bloom  in  the  blue  above 
Is  fit  for  my  bosom,  Love — my  Love. 

You  've  likened  my  song  to  the  song  of  the  bird, 
My  sigh  to  the  tree's  by  the  night  wind  stirred  : 
Like  the  moan  of  the  pine,  of  the  lone  wild  dove, 
My  song,  my  sighing,  to-night,  my  Love. 


WAITING.  7g 


The  fields  fold  in  glory  the  golden  sheaves, 
The  full  moon  silvers  the  swinging  leaves  : 
As  the  white  cloud  waits  for  the  wind  above, 
I  'm  waiting  for  you,  my  Love — my  Love. 


THE  OLD. 

T  T  may  be  that  the  angels  follow  not 

When  we  begin  the  varied  round  of  days  ; 
While  mothers  lead  along  the  early  ways, 
Not  Heaven  itself  may  add  to  childhood's  lot. 
Perchance  God's  envoys  pass  the  viny  spot, 
The  mossy  couch,  of  youth — heed  not  the  maze 
Of  dances  where  the  dappling  moonlight  plays, 
No  burden  to  be  borne,  no  battle  fought. 
The  child,  the  youth,  the  man,  angels  go  by. 
May  be  ;  but  when  life's  biding  shadows  fold, 
It  must  be  that  they  hear,  then,  every  sigh, 
And  gather  lovingly  around  the  old  : 
The  glories  on  the  going  summer  lie, 
On  the  spent  sun  attend  the  hosts  in  gold. 


OUR   MOTHER. 

T  T  7HEN  the  first  man  stood  forth  in  Paradise, 

And  the  first  woman  came   to  grace  her 

bowers, 

The  conscious  garden  glowed  with  thousand  flowers, 
With  light — wild,  laughing  light,  in  thousand  eyes 
Of  beauty.     Lovelier  than  young  morning  lies 
On  hill-tops,  hovered  round  the  wondering  hours  ; 
And  splendors  richer  than  the  red  west  showers, 
Fell  wide  on  Eden,  all  glory  and  surprise. 
And  does  Our  Mother  love  us,  now,  the  less, 
And  why  we  fail  her  does  she  understand  ? 
For  him  that  comes  with  trust  and  tenderness, 
Eden  still  blossoms  from  her  very  sand  : 
Some  flower— believe  it— blossoming  but  to  bless, 
Will  wait  to  wither  in  the  last  man's  hand. 


THE  HEART'S  SOVEREIGNTY. 

T   TEACH  my  feet,  and  they  go  not  astray, 

My  hands,  and  they  reach  not  against  my  will  *, 
I  can  my  eager  ears  with  silence  fill, 
My  tongue,  so  wayward — it,  too,  will  obey, 
And  fickle  vision,  flown  beyond  the  day, 
Comes  back  to  me,  submissive  ;  ay,  I  chill 
Fair  pleasure  to  the  quick,  rude  check  the  thrill 
Of  hope,  and  crying  sorrow  thrust  away. 
The  lusty  senses,  full  of  youth,  do  yield, 
Even  wild-born  thought  does  learn  to  heed  my 

call; 

Fancy  will  leave  her  ever-vernal  field, 
Imagination  share  the  toiler's  thrall. 
Ah,  mocking  heart,  why  do  you  let  me  wield 
This  master  might,  at  last  to  baffle  all ! 


DEATH'S. 

"f  T  7HEN  hungry  years  youth's  ruddy  color  drain, 
Glut  them  on  his  plumpness,  suck  dry  his 

bones. 

Choke  laughter,  song,  with  silence  or  with  groans, 
Put  out  his  sight,  over  the  jaded  brain 
Install  disorder,  break  the  old  sweet  strain 
On  his   clogged   tongue, — what  is  it  ?     Death  de 
thrones, 

But  never  honored  age  his  sceptre  owns  : 
Old  men  die  not,  they  rest  to  rise  again. 
When  lusty  years  youth's  ruddy  color  feed, 
Charge  his  clear  eye  with  light,  his  veins  with  wine, 
Honey  his  tongue,  touch  thought  and  feet  with  speed, 
Build  him,  fill  him,  with  shape  and  strength  divine, 
And  he  does  drop  and  wallow,  mire  in  greed — 
Him  Death  marks:  "Yonder — that  one — he  is  mine." 


THE  GUEST. 

A     TRAVELER  who  had  far  countries  seen, 

One  summer  day  went  roaming.     By  his  way, 
At  noon,  school  children  leapt  from  books  to  play, 
While  the  mistress  looked  adown  the  ringing  green 
After  them  :  drawing  near,  the  rider  lent 
His  ready  tongue  to  timely  compliment. 

At  first  the  listener's  thoughts  fled  in  dismay, 
But  soon  the  old  peace  fell  upon  her  deep 
As  on  the  flower  before  the  Cave  of  Sleep  ; 
And  of  her  neighbors  and  her  flock  at  play 
—Familiar  themes,  indeed,  but  never  old— 
In  simple  speech  and  fit  the  mistress  told. 


THE   GUEST.  85 


Lastly  of  her  old  father  :  it  was  he 
— She  felt  the  blushes  start — that  stretched  his  hand 
'Cross  broadest  acres  of  the  valley  land. 
The  mistress  answered  all ;  naught  questioned  she 
More  than  the  blossom  asks  whom  it  may  greet 
When  the  full  air  night-long  unloads  its  sweet. — 

Whether  the  work  of  will  or  destiny 

It  boots  not,  nightfall  found  a  stranger  at 
The  farmer's  table.     Orator  he  sat 

To  beauty  and  gray  hairs  ;  attentively 

The  old  man  listened,  or  in  lusty  tone 

Matched  some  fine  phrase  with  homespun  of  his  own. 

The  morrow  came,  the  guest  arose  to  go. 

Then  spoke  the  hearty  host, — "A  week  lay  by  ; 

Young  man,  'tis  but  the  winking  of  an  eye. 
Home  bodies,  little  of  the  world  we  know  ; 
Stay,  tell  us  of  the  wide  world  widely  seen  : 
Just  up  and  down  these  ways  our  feet  have  been, 


86  THE  GUEST. 


"  You  seek  green  pastures  ;  buy  of  me,  and  own 
The  richest  in  the  valley.     Price — pay  part 
In  money,  part  in  cheer  an  honest  heart 

And  seasoned  wits  withal,  give  mortals  lone, 

Tired  of  themselves.     Acres,  I  say,  for  cheer  ; 

Lay  by — there 's  a  good  twelve  month  in  every  year." 

Biding  his  promised  week,  the  guest  delayed, 
And  bought  him  lands,  and  told  of  other  climes. 
His  tales  of  countries  far  would  many  times 
Return  in  waking  visions  of  the  maid, 
Bringing  a  tremor  such  as  breezes  bring 
Upon  a  moth  sunning  its  pictured  wing. 

"  Not  yet,  but  in  the  happy  after  years  ; 

She  will  be  older,  then,"  the  wanderer  said. 

Like  the  hurt  flower  that  shuts  its  leaves  in  dread 
Of  passing  clouds,  she  shrank  before  her  fears, 
In  answer  to  his  thought.     The  hours  went  on, 
The  days,  a  rounded  seven— the  guest  was  gone, 


THE  GUEST.  87 


One  little  week,  but  childhood's  peace  had  fled  ; 

The  many  summer  murmurs,  wont  to  be 

A  ceaseless  hymn  of  even  harmony, 
Now  rose,  unheeded.     "Nay,"  the  maiden  said, 
"  I  hear  the  pines  only  of  all  the  trees, 
Their  moaning,  and  that  blown  across  the  seas." — 

The  long,  long  summer  went,  and  autumn  came. 

Thick   in    the   field    stood,    ranked,    the   stately 
sheaves, 

And  apples  peered  'twixt  glossy  orchard  leaves  ; 
Nightly  the  low  sun  hung  the  vale  with  flame, 
While  winds  were  silent,  and  the  darkened  rill 
Slipt  noiseless  as  the  mist  along  the  hill. 

The  mistress,  eve  to  eve,  gazed  on  the  sky, 
On  its  purple  islands  set  in  pearly  seas, 
Its  rich  ships,  steered  between  the  mountain  trees, 
And,  last,  on  the  molten  gold  when  suddenly 
Came  blushing  up  a  rush  of  color,  massed — 
Swift,  gorgeous  ruin,  and  the  daylight  passed. 


THE  GUEST. 


The  sunset  spelled  her,  now,  as  never  before : 
Tvvas  at  this  hour  the  stranger  held  her  hand, 
And  loosed  it,  and  went  from  her  to  the  land 

So  far  and  strange.     Oh,  should  she  see  him  more  ? 

Would  all  be  as  it  was  ?    What  would  he  say, 

Unsaid  when  like  a  king  he  strode  away  ? 

With  hope  and  doubt  contending  in  her  heart, 
Striving  so  deep  within  they  made  no  sound 
Might  pass  her  lips,  she  plied  her  daily  round 
Of  cares,  unswerving.     All  her  daughter's  part 
She  did  ;  and  every  little  tongue  would  tell, 
Unasked,  she  served  the  hamlet  children  well. 

The  days  grew  short,  and  round  the  cottage  all 
Was  white  but  the  dull  gray  barns  and  black-topt 

wood: 
Still  she  was  silent.     Humoring  his  mood, 

The  father,  half  in  jest,  one  night  let  fall 

Inviting  words  :  she  tried  to  tell  him — tried, 

But  only  drew  her  closer  to  his  side. 


THE  GUEST.  89 


The  wind  was  up,  th'  assaulted  forest  bowed, 
And  rose  again,  defiant  ;  at  the  eaves 
Was  fitful  wailing — like  a  voice  that  grieves 
For  life-long  hurt,  the  sound  was  ;  high  and  loud 
The  passing  blasts — a  winter  revel  wild, 
But  cheerly  by  his  hearth  the  old  man  smiled. 

"  Daughter/'  said  he,  "  the  spring  is  not  so  far 
Away  but  these  blear  eyes  can  see  her  green : 
Across  the  barren  patch  of  weeks  between, 

She  sets  her  feet  this  way.     God  will,  we  are 

To  have  the  wandering  scholar  with  us,  then, 

To  brighten  up  us  rusty  farmer  men. 

"Suppose  we  keep  him.     Girls  will  hang  the  head 
At  old  folks'  notions.     Well,  well,  let  it  go  ; 
You  are  too  young  yet,  girl,  I  know — I  know." 

The  other  sought  her  chamber  ;  from  her  bed 

She  watched  till  the  wind  went  down,  and  past  the 
pine 

The  foxes  trotted  in  the  white  moonshine. — 


go  THE  GUEST. 


At  last  the  dreary  winter  grays  will  go, 

Bring  what  it  may,  the  April  green  will  come  ; 
Flowers  for  the  altar,  for  the  under  home — 

They  bloom  for  either,  and  we  cannot  know. 

The  mistress — strange  splendor  hid  her  :  so  morn 
ing  light 

Breaks  round  the  star,  and  shines  it  out  of  sight. 

The  great  sails  filled  along  the  windy  main, 
The  homing  ships  rode  toward  the  western  shore, 
But  none  there  was  the  "  wandering  scholar  "  bore. 

The  spring,  but  not  the  stranger,  came  again  ; 

Ay,  the  May  clouds  came,  and  with  the  children 
wept, 

Fostering  the  blossoms  where  the  mistress  slept. 


THE  CONFESSION. 

LEATHER,  thy  face  were  not  so  pale 

Did  all  thy  flock  together  cry 
Their  sin.     Is 't,  then,  so  hard  a  tale  ? 
God's  servant,  what  if,  when  I  die 
— And  that,  perchance,  before  the  eye 
Of  morn,  fixed  on  yon  blue  dome, 

Again  looks  light  across  the  sky — 
I  should  behold  Hell's  red  mouth  foam 
With  flutter  of  white  souls  thou  hast  chanted  home  ? 

Hear  me.     The  path  in  anguish  trod, 

That  night,  I  once  had  loved  it  so  ! 
Now,  every  root,  and  stone,  and  sod — 

How  it  did  sting  me  !    To  and  fro 


THE  CONFESSION. 


The  strained  trees  gestured  wild,  as  tho' 
To  mock  me.     Repeating  Arno's  name, 

Upon  this  knife — long  years  ago 
He  gave  it  me— my  cold  hand  came, 
And  drew  and  aimed  it.     Instantly  a  flame 

Of  fearful  brightness  split  the  dark, 

The  heavy-treading  thunder  fast 
Marched  up — the  bright  blade  missed  the  mark. 

Methinks  it  knew  Arno  had  passed 

That  way,  was  by  th'  avenging  blast 
Driven  to  the  wood,  the  brand  of  Cain 

Upon  his  forehead.     Loud  and  fast 
The  thunder  strode,  while  my  crazed  brain 
Made  the  thick  drops  my  tears  dashed  back  again. 

— Dost  catch  it  ?    Now  a  half-score  years 
I  've  heard  that  moan. — Hear  me  :  hear  it  all. 

If  Arno  spilled  my  life  in  tears, 
If  I  by  Arno's  hand  did  fall, 


THE  CONFESSION.  93 

Why  my  sin  weigh  me  till  I  crawl, 
And  he  stoop  not  ?    What  was 't  but  wrong 

For  wrong  ?    And  had  he  sipped  the  gall 
I  fed  on,  lost  to  the  gay  throng 
Where  only  joy's  unmurdered  hearts  belong, 

I  had  not  done  it.     I  in  my  grave, 
What  did  he  ?    Has  the  dove  a  wing  ; 

And  Love — will  he  be  caged  save 

For  first-love's  hour  ? — Heaven  !  there  to  fling 
The  flowers  gathered  of  my  Spring  ! — 

The  night  the  storm  his  daggers  drew, 
And  I  drew  with  him,  she  did  cling 

To  Arno's  neck.     Oh,  her  breath  blew 

In  my  ears  louder  than  the  blast  !— I  slew — 

— Hark — hark  !    Teach  it  to  say  amen — 
That  long  last  moan  the  dying  make  : 

Between  the  thunder — again — again  ! — 
Nay,  my  good  hand,  you  will  not  shake, 


94 


THE   CONFESSION. 


And,  my  good  limbs,  you  will  not  quake, 
So  firm  thro'  all  the  storm's  uproar. — 

Father,  it  is  not  fear  does  take 
Such  hold  on  me. — Tis  gone  ;  once  more 
I  am  the  woman  soldiers  can  adore. — 

I  go  a  doubtful  way,  so  lack 

Thy  blessing.     Strive  not ;  so 't  shall  be. — 
The  night  closed  in.     On  darkening  track 

The  storm  rushed  up,  clutched  savagely 

The  cow'ring  wood,  wrenched  the  strong  tree 
Till  it  did  writhe  for  very  pain, 

Moan,  like  a  hurt  beast,  piteously  ; 
While  the  fierce  thoughts  in  my  poor  brain, 
Made  the  raindrops  my  tears  dashed  back  again. - 

But  I  have  told  thee,  holding  well 
To  truth  ;  I  have  not  learned  to  lie. 

Useful,  belike,  the  tale  to  tell 
Thy  people,  father,  by  and  by. 


THE  CONFESSION. 


Make  clean  work  :  tell  them  plainly  why 
I  did  it,  no  less  plainly  how. 

Say  that  I  spoke  unfalteringly, 
That  I  kneeled  not,  nor  once  did  bow 
The  head,  nor  on  the  lips  take  any  vow. 

I  know  'tis  rash.     As  well  I  know — 

Mark  me— when  heaving  earth  shall  thrust 
Her  dead  up,  and  tossed  coffins  glow 

In  long,  forgotten  sun,  thro'  rust 

Of  ages  will  their  throbbing  dust 
Break,  burst,  into  the  quick'ning  air. 

On  that  great  morning,  Arno  must 
Stand  forth — Arno,  divinely  fair — 
Expectant  'mong  the  millions  summoned  there. 

Swiftly  past  her,  past  all,  will  leap 

My  lover,  in  his  arms  so  strong 
Once  more  to  take  me.     Embraced,  we  '11  weep, 

And  all  undo  the  olden  wrong.— 


g6  THE  CONFESSION. 

Father,  go  back  into  the  throng, 
Tell  them  how  brave  was  our  good-by 

Go  back,  and  tell  the  coward  throng 
Thou  saw'st  the  good  blade  do  it.     Ay — 
'Tis  to  the  hilt— so— so.    Thy  hand  ;  I— die. 


WHO'S  FOR  THE  MAGDALEN? 

T  T  7 HO 'S  for  the  Magdalen, 

Women  and  men  ? 
Hold  hands  up.     One— two. 
Fine  lady,  no,  not  you 
Who  said  hard  things  ; 
Praise  not  her  wings, 
Now  she 's  flown  : 
Remember  you  let  her  die  alone. 

11  Who 's  for  the  Magdalen, 
Women  and  men  ?  " 
You  heard  it  twice,  thrice, 
Some  weeks  since  ;  but  too  nice 
Those  hands  then.     Breath 
Gone,  now  blind  Death 


g8  WHO'S  FOR   THE  MAGDALEN? 

Sees  you  kind  : 

She 's  dead,  Ma'am— pray  keep  the  fact  in  mind. 

Who 's  for  the  Magdalen, 

Women  and  men  f 

What  answer  ? — "  Ay  !  "  "  Ay  !  " — 

Staunch  churchman,  tell  no  He  ; 

Sepulchre  white, 

Wail  not  her  plight 

Now  she 's  gone  : 

You  gave  her  no  bed  to  die  upon. 

"  Who's  for  the  Magdalen, 
Women  and  men  ?  " 
You  heard  it  days,  weeks, 
It  is  since.     Kindness  speaks 
To  live  folk  ;  clay 
Slights  what  you  say, 
Mocks  your  care  : 
That 's  only  her  body  boxed,  out  there. 


WHO'S  FOR    THE  MAGDALEN?  99 

Who 's  for  the  Magdalen, 

Women  and  men  ? 

All  hands  up  high,  now 

The  death-damp 's  on  her  brow^. 

Till  she  went  hence 

A  pestilence, 

So  unclean, 

Why,  now,  is  she  better  than  she 's  been  ? 

All  for  the  Magdalen, 

Women  and  men, 

So  sudden— "  Ay  !  "  "  Ay  !  "— 

There  she  goes,  riding  by, 

Riding  along, 

She  and  her  wrong, 

Quite  at  ease  ; 

The  coaches  are  empty — look  out,  please. 

Who 's  for  the  Magdalen, 
Women  and  men  ? 


WHO'S  FOR    THE  MAGDALEN? 


As  Heaven  is  true 

Not  one  small  soul  of  you  ! 

It  takes  His  heart, 

Takes  His  God  part, 

That  of  yore 

Said  to  her,  Go  thou,  and  sin  no  more. 


THE  EMPTY  ARBOR. 

/^vF  a  silent  night  in  summer, 

Through  her  viny  arbor  bars 
Looked  a  maiden  as,  above  her, 
One  by  one,  came  out  the  stars. 

While  she  gazed,  a  stealthy  shadow 

Halted  at  the  arbor  door  ; 
And  the  music  of  the  river 

Faltered,  sank,  and  rose  no  more. 

Raptured,  she  nor  saw  nor  felt  him, 
That  dread  shadow,  black  and  still ; 

Nor  were  missed  the  gentle  measures 
Of  the  river  'neath  the  hill. 


THE  EMPTY  ARBOR. 


All  unnoticed  were  the  lilies, 
Leaned  together  on  their  "bed, 

And  the  roses'  troubled  slumber, 
And  the  words  the  night  winds  said, 

Past  the  arbor  ran  the  river, 

Round,  the  moon  rolled  up  the  sky  : 
Slowly  creeping  toward  the  maiden, 

Closer  did  the  shadow  lie.— - 

As  of  old,  the  singing  river 
Past  the  garden  goes  to  sea  j 

But  forever  and  forever 
Shall  the  arbor  empty  be. 

Still  the  summer  vines  are  winding 

In  and  out  the  arbor  bars 
But  the  lifted  face  is  missing 

At  the  coming  of  the  stars. 


THE  EMPTY  ARBOR.  103 

Day  to  day  the  suns  go  over, 

Rose  and  lily  come  and  go  ; 
But  the  shadow  won  the  maiden 

For  his  bridal  bed  below. 


THE  WIND. 

'r"Tv!S  told,  long  years  ago 

"  The  Wind—"  a  maiden  cried, 
"  Bespeak  him  merry  wedding  "; 
That  night  the  maiden  died. 

The  Wind  had  won  her  spirit, 
Bride  of  the  Wind  was  she : 

And  every  breath  blew  sweet, 
The  air  grew  melody. 

O  wondrous,  wondrous  night 

For  Wind  and  Spirit  fair  : 
The  moon,  the  stars,  the  music, 

The  bliss  of  the  bridal  pair  ! — 


THE   WIND.  105 


A  life  may  all  be  lived 

Twixt  a  sunset  and  a  dawn  ; 
But  pray  for  him  that  wakens 

To  find  the  dream  is  gone. 

A  band  of  angels  came, 
And  bore  the  Soul  away  ; 

On  wings  that  none  may  follow 
They  fled  at  break  of  day. 

The  lonely,  homeless  wind, 
He  roves,  bemoaning  sore  : 

He  seeks  the  Soul,  a-roaming, 
A-moaning  evermore. 


SONG  AND  SILENCE. 

T  T  is  not  on  the  evening  air — 

The  voice  that  day-long  led  the  wind, 
Trilling  gay  measures  to  the  shades, 
Laughing  frolic  brooks  behind. 

The  greenest  mead,  the  bluest  sky, 
Was  brighter,  warmer  for  its  song  ; 

Time  felt  a  quickening  at  his  heart, 
Lighter  danced  the  hours  along. 

Fresh  blossom-voice,  song-flower  of  light, 
God  pity  him  it  did  not  bless  j 

But  Silence,  Silence — hear  her,  there, 
Her  eternal  tenderness  ! 


THE  TREES. 

"IT  THAT  other  shapes  so  stand,  so  fall? 

In  every  leaf  uplifted, 
Here  greatness  speaks,  calm  voices  call, 
With  gray  years'  vision  gifted. 

Men  hope,  and  labor,  and  despair, 
Laughter  they  have  and  sorrow  ; 

The  trees  their  gods'  composure  wear 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow. 


SPRING  SONGS. 
I. 

TV  yfY  thoughts — they  swing  and  chime 

I  sing  the  swallows'  joys 
As  sung,  in  olden  time, 
The  Rhodian  chorus  boys. 

And  here  the  wild  birds  sing, 
And  there  the  wild  flow'rs  blow : 

My  heart— 'tis  on  the  wing, 
I  know  not  where  'twill  go. 

II. 

Now,  back  again  to  brown,  gray  hair, 
And  honeyed  be  my  tongue  ; 


SPRING  SONGS.  109 


"Years  do  but  cheat,"  says. this  sweet  air, 
Who  breathes  it— he  is  young. 

Hey,  back  again  to  brown,  gray  hair, 

Not  all  the  songs  are  sung : 
A  sweetheart  for  the  sweet  Spring  air, 

And  my  heart  sweet  and  young  ! 


III. 

The  maple  and  the  birch  were  gray, 

I  heard  no  happy  song  ; 
The  grass  was  yellow,  yesterday, 

Silence  and  dark  were  strong  ; 

But,  now,  the  black  sky  hurries  blue, 
And  brightness  strikes  the  brown, 

And  dandelion  's  reaching  thro' 
To  take  his  golden  crown. 


SPRING  SONGS. 


Ay,  yesterday,  I  smelt  the  snow, 
To-day,  the  brooks  make  merry  ; 

The  white  is  in  the  lowly  blow, 
'Tis  hiding  in  the  cherry. 

The  alders  and  the  hazels  know, 

The  violet  understands : 
On  every  side,  above,  below, 

Love  calls,  and  claps  his  hands. 


MORNING  SONG  IN   SUMMER. 

"V  1[  7 HERE  fairy  fishers  cast  their  net, 

And  flee  before  the  dawn, 
Wave,  webby  mead  with  diamonds  set, 
Shine  wide — the  night  is  gone. 

Both  happy  ways  and  haunts  forlorn, 

Hark,  hear  the  woodland  thrill ! 
The  black  flower  blossoms— morn,  new  morn, 

Blows  on  the  eastern  hill. 

Croon  at  the  breast,  sweet  child-brook,  croon, 
You  're  Summer's,  and  we  love  you  ; 

Sing,  sing,  for  dreams  will  fall  at  noon, 
From  drowsy  boughs  above  you. 


MORNING  SONG  IN  SUMMER. 


Sing,  too,  heart ;  for  when  shadows  come, 
And  touch  and  shut  the  daisies, 

With  very  sweetness  song  falls  dumb, 
Singing  the  Summer's  praises. 


SUMMER  HOURS. 

/^v  WHAT  bliss  it  is  to  be 

'Neath  a  green  old  forest  tree; 
There  to  lie  with  open  eye 
While  the  dreams  go  gliding  by  ! 
Flit  of  wings  and  breath  offawers, 
Follow,  follow,  Summer  Hours. 

Under  shade  of  playing  leaves, 
With  the  visions  fancy  weaves- 
Wary  thoughts  you  cannot  capture, 
O,  the  wondrous,  subtile  rapture  ! 

When  the  fitful  breezes  blow, 
'Tis  the  thrill  that  lovers  know  ; 


ii4  SUMMER  HOURS. 

Either  place  it  well  may  be, 
In  your  heart  or  in  the  tree. 

One  by  one,  the  dreams  come  on, 
Now  they  're  glowing,  now  they  're  gone  ; 
Meet  them,  greet  them,  while  you  may, 
They  '11  not  come  another  day. 
Flit  of  wings  and  breath  of ' flowers t 
Follow ',  follow ',  Summer  Hours. 


THE  BROOK. 

AILY  from  yon  shady  nook, 

Hurry,  laughing  little  brook  ; 
Thro'  the  meadows,  round  the  hill, 
'Twixt  the  willows  by  the  mill, 
Light  and  bright,  and  sweet  and  free, 
Dance  it,  glance  it,  happily. 


Not  a  trouble,  not  a  care, 

Finds  you  running— running,  there. 

Take,  O  take,  your  singing  way, 

Fair  to-morrow  as  to-day  ; 

Light  and  bright,  and  sweet  and  free, 

Wimple,  dimple  cheerily  ! 


n6  THE  BROOK. 


Gaily  from  yon  shady  nook, 
Hurry,  laughing  little  brook  ; 
Unlike  you,  'neath  golden  sun, 
Streams  that  in  heart  courses  run 
Run,  O,  run  afar  from  me, 
Purl  it,  twirl  it,  merrily  ! 


SUMMER   NOON. 

E  dust,  unlifted,  lies  as  first  it  lay 
When  on  his  dewy  path  came  up  the  day; 

The  spider-web  stirs  not ;  on  seas  of  air, 
The  thistle-ship,  becalmed,  rocks  idly  there. 

The  fern  leaves  curl,  the  wild-rose  sweetness  spends 
Rich  as  at  eve  the  honeysuckle  lends  ; 

The  creeping  cattle  feed  far  up  the  hill, 

The  blithest  birds  have  hid,  the  wood  is  still ; 

On  daisied  dials,  pointing  flower  to  flower, 

The  shadow-hands  have  reached  the  Golden  Hour. 


AUGUST  DAYS. 

Q*  OFT  and  voiceless  August  days  ! 
Mute  the  ferny  woodland  ways, 
Hushed  the  merry  meadow  lays  ; 
Stillness  all  and  heavy  haze 
Of  the  charmed  August  days. 
In  the  hollow,  on  the  steep, 
Dwells  a' silence  long  and  deep  ; 
Hush  of  slumber,  lustrous  haze, 
Mellow,  yellow  August  days  ! 
Not  the  smallest  whisper,  now, 
Of  the  secrets  of  the  bough  ; 
In  his  glory  hid,  alone, 
Sits  the  hill-god  on  his  throne. 
Voiceless  August,  soft  and  still  ! 
Come,  sweetxkeams,  and  have  your  will 


A  UGUST  DA  VS.  «9 


No  more  sighing,  no  more  tears, 
They  are  ours— the  Happy  Years  ; 
Time 's  gone  backward,  and  life  strays 
In  the  olden  golden  days. 


THE  STRANGER-DAYS. 

T)  UT  yesterday  the  spirit  came 

That  sets  the  summer  trees  aflame : 
I  saw  her  fires  when  first  they  fell 
On  yonder  flashing  sentinel. 
The  gorgeous  colorings  that  cloak 
The  sumach  and  the  scarlet  oak, 
That  in  the  ruddy  woodbine  glow, 
That  only  lordly  maples  know, — 
Here,  one  by  one,  I  stood  to  see 
Them  glance  and  catch  from  tree  to  tree. 
And  now,  that  pomp  not  kings  put  on, 
As  in  a  night  has  faded— gone  ; 
And,  motionless,  a  warning  haze 
Veils  heavily  the  stranger-days. 


GOING  OF  AUTUMN. 

rT^HE  hearty  portulaccas  fade, 

The  scarlet  salvias  yield, 
And  soberest  of  hues  are  laid 
On  withered  wood  and  field. 

The  first  frosts  at  the  wood's  edge  hold 

Until  the  sun  is  high, 
The  golden-rod  is  waxing  old, 

Yes,  dim  the  gentian's  eye. 

The  kingfisher  sits  thoughtful,  lone, 
While,  with  a  mournful  smile, 

The  weak  light  leans  on  mound  and  stone 
And  dapple  apple-pile. 


GOING  OF  A  UTUMN, 


No  longer,  now,  the  brooks  rejoice, 
The  hours  of  joy  are  told  : 

Whither  we  list,  a  piteous  voice 
Says  sadly,  "lam  old." 


DEATH   OF  AUTUMN. 


*T^HEY  have  led  her  away, 

Up  the  stairs  of  day  ; 
Step  by  step  in  the  mellow  light, 
Have  led  her  away 
To  the  turret  gray 
Where  morning  meets  the  night. 
The  ruthless  band 
Loosing  her  hand, 

She  throws  her  gorgeous  garment  down, 
And  with  naked  foot  on  her  fated  crown, 
Leans  and  looks  from  the  windows  of  air. 
Long  she  looks  below,  above, 
Then,  to  a  sorrowful  song  of  love, 


i24  DEA  TH  OF  A  UTUMN.  ' 

Begins  to  bind  her  hair, 
Strewn  on  her  shoulders  bare. 

The  keen  winds  cry, 
As  they  cross  the  sky, 
"  Lo,  our  lady  is  nude, 
And  binds  her  hair  in  solitude  ! " 
The  pitiless  winds  loud  cry, 
Round  the  turret  whirling  by  ; 
The  withered  leaves 
And  flowers — as  she  grieves 
She  flings  them  forth 
To  the  bitter  North  : 
Her  heart's  blood  stains  them  all, 
Bleeding — bleeding — as  they  fall. 

'Tis  night :  the  last  pale  leaf  is  kissed, 
And  cast  down  into  the  golden  mist. 
The  keen  winds  cry, 
As  they  cross  the  sky, 


DEA  TH  OF  A  UTUMN.  125 

But  Autumn  has  bound  her  hair  ; 

Ended  her  song  of  last  despair, 

And  to  and  fro, 

And  to  and  fro, 

Flit  ghosts  at  the  windows  of  air. 


NOVEMBER. 


HP  HE  summer  blooms  are  lying 

Below  the  matted  grass, 
Through  naked  forest  sighing, 
The  winds  of  sorrow  pass  ; 


The  birds  their  flight  have  taken, 

No  music  by  the  way, 
And  each  sweet  haunt,  forsaken, 

Yields  fragrance  of  decay  ; 

Last  splendors  on  the  river 
Slow  spread  the  parting  sail, 

Alone,  the  lank  weeds  shiver 
Before  the  with'ring  gale. 


FANCY'S  FLOCK. 


TTANCY'S  flock  in  dreamy  close, 

Soft  they  rise  when  darkness  goes  ; 
Tasting  sweets  of  sun  and  shade, 
Down  the  meadow,  up  the  glade, 
Here  the  field,  and  there  the  grove, 
Now  they  rest,  and  now  they  rove. 
Up  and  down  all  happy  ways 
Fancy's  flock  at  pleasure  strays, 
Up  and  down,  and  far  and  wide, 
Pretty  shepherds  at  their  side, 
Some  before,  and  some  behind, 
Lest  they  meet  the  chilly  wind.— 


FANCY "S  FLOCK. 


Hark  !  the  little  silver  bell ! 
Pretty  shepherds,  tend  them  well ; 
See  there  be  no  missing  one 
When  the  sunny  day  is  done. 


ON  THE  UPPER  WAYS. 

"\7OU  'VE  climbed  a  steep,  but  have  you  gone 

Up  Atlas  with  Endymion — 
Been  with  him,  there,  as  sung  of  old, 
Moon-loved,  herding  his  flocks  a-cold  ? 
You  've  seen  the  sun  come  up  and  bound 
The  east  with  belt  of  red  and  gold  ; 
You  've  seen,  but  have  you  trod,  that  ground, 
The  dancing-ground  of  th'  early  dawn  ? 
Have  you  won  those  heights  next  the  sun, 
Where  the  wild-haired  Bacchantes  run  ? 
You  know  the  wood,  but  have  you  seen 
Camilla  in  her  tiger  skin, 
With  arrow  and  with  javelin  ? 


i3o  ON  THE  UPPER  WAYS. 

You  know  the  green  fields  and  the  trees, 

But  know  you  their  divinities  ; 

Do  you  draw  close  as  mortal  can, 

Dance  with  the  nymphs  that  dance  with  Pan  ? 

You  know  by  note  the  wild  bird's  song, 

Where  shadows  lay  them  deep  and  long, 

But  what  of  that  one  song  that  dies 

Upon  the  grave  where  Orpheus  lies  ? 

You  know  the  dews  that  gem  the  grass 

Where  white  feet  of  the  morning  pass, 

But  the  amber  that  is  wept  upon 

The  body  of  young  Phaeton  ? 

The  lily  and  the  violet — 

You  've  seen,  and  plucked,  and  loved  them,  yet 

There  may  be  left  the  flowers  to  see 

That  on  the  plains  of  Enna  be. 

Ay,  every  field  and  every  wood, 

The  gurgling  stream,  the  murm'ring  hill — 

You  love  them  as  a  lover  should  ; 

But  there  be  pleasures  sweeter  still 


ON  THE   UPPER   WAYS.  131 

Along  the  viewless  Upper  Ways 
The  poet  trod  in  olden  days. 
There,  never  is  a  fair  shape  found 
But  music  floats  it  round  and  round  ; 
And  fairest  things  that  eye  can  see 
Aye  come  and  go  in  melody, 
Until  the  last  dull,  halting  thought 
Is  by  the  rapture  swift  upcaught, 
And  we  do  come  a  part  to  be 
Of  what  we  feel  and  hear  and  see. 


THE   POET. 

"n*ORTUNE  does  less  capricious  prove 

Than  Nature  :  partial  is  Our  Mother, 
Making  one  poor  to  enrich  another. 
She  gives  a  soul  will  no  more  move 
Than  it  must  with  Tolling  of  the  world, 
Then  a  quick  spirit  that  will  be 
Abreast  with  thought's  infinity, 
Urging,  with  colors  wide  unfurled, 
The  hard  march  starward.     From  above 
This  one,  sky -got,  son  of  her  love, 
A  wilding  love-flower,  blown 
Into  sweetness  all  his  own. 
Gentle,  but  with  strength  to  stand 
And  meet  the  landscape's  large  demand, 


THE  POET.  133 


The  hills,  towering  upon  his  sight, 

Lift  him  unto  their  noble  height ; 

The  waters  at  his  feet 

Yield  him  their  accent  clear  and  sweet ; 

His  eye  in  darkness  sightful  is, 

His  ear  can  hear  the  silencies. 

This  is  the  poet,  Nature's  son 

She  sets  her  hope  upon. 

He  knows  where  eyes  are  best, 

There  does  most  beauty  rest ; 

Therefore  in  forbidding  places 

Captures  he  most  subtile  graces. 

The  poet  leaves  no  place  the  same 

As  when  to  it  he  came : 

He  something  leaves,  he  something  takes, 

Now  he  destroys,  now  makes, 

And  all  for  truth  and  beauty, 

To  whom  he  owes  perpetual  duty, 

To  them  and  to  no  other. 

Nature  is  a  partial  mother. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE. 

TT)  ISE,  soul ;  we  go  to  find 

That  quiet  land  and  kind 
Where  world  and  worry  cease, 
And  spirits  be  at  peace. 
The  years  that  make  men  old, 
The  buyer  and  his  gold  ; 
Parading  fools  of  fame, 
In  feathers  of  a  name  ; 
The  rubbish  of  vain  strife, 
The  litter  of  mean  life, — 
All  these  will  we  forsake, 
Our  pilgrim's  journey  take. 
Rise,  soul ;  we  go  to  find 
That  quiet  land  and  kind, 


.  THE  PILGRIMAGE.  135 

Far  from  the  curse  of  care, 
From  darkness  of  despair. 
There  shall  we  wake  or  rest, 
As  eagles  soar  or  nest ; 
Shall  ripen  like  the  grain 
Beneath  free  sun  and  rain, 
Our  labor  to  believe, 
Our  privilege  to  receive, 
We  shall  not  search,  but  see, 
That  which  we  would  be,  be 
Rise,  soul ;  the  hours  fly  on, 
Make  haste,  let  us  be  gone  ; 
The  good  land  lies  afar,  , 
And  we  late  pilgrims  are. 


THE  SACRED  VEIL. 

'T^HE  fretting  thoughts  of  toil  had  fled, 
And  a  vision  stood  beside  my  bed. 
A  stately  shape  he  was,  and  hoar, 
In  his  right  hand  a  staff  he  bore  ; 
Fine  as  mist-wreaths  his  beard  and  hair, 
Drifting  with  lightest  pulse  of  air  ; 
While  a  sober  mantle,  ample,  free, 
Heightened  his  native  majesty. 
He  spoke  ;  and,  to  this  hour,  I  hear 
The  gracious  accents  of  the  seer  : 

Mortal,  the  light  crowning  this  hoary  head, 
Down  gleaming  ages,  numberless,  is  shed, 


THE  SA  CRED   VEIL.  .  137 

It  is  the  same  that  on  creation's  morn 
Greeted  your  globe  of  night  and  chaos  born  : 
I  heard  the  star-song  all  that  morning  sung — 
That    wondrous    morn    when    Time    himself    was 

young. 

These  hands,  unlifted  still  thy  race  to  bless, 
Balanced  the  atoms  struck  from  nothingness, 
And   gave   them    place  ;    when    darkness    opened 

eyes 

I  calmed  the  startled  deep,  hushed  its  surprise  ; 
When  silence  spoke,  and  unborn  workmen  heard, 
I  answered,  first  to  serve  th'  Eternal  Word. 
We  shaped  the  worlds,  on  paths  of  flaming  gold 
The  distant  suns  into  their  orbits  bowled  ; 
We  fixed  the  limits  of  the  reaching  sea, 
The  wide  air's  boundary.    As,  to-day,  they  be, 
In  thy  green  earth  these  fingers  set  the  seeds 
Of  life — seeds  of  the  trees,  of  the  wayside  weeds: 
Still  does  the  first  far  purpose  firm  prevail, 
Each  follows  his  own  kind,  and  cannot  fail. 


i38  THE  SACRED   VEIL. 

Mortal,  to  me  fierce  lightnings  flash  and  die 
Feeble  and  faint  as  glint  of  meadow-fly  ; 
The  storm-voice  whispers,  the  wild  cataract  falls 
Like  evening  shadows  on  your  cottage  walls. 
I  know  the  ways  of  silence  and  of  sound, 
Of  light  and  darkness  on  their  ceaseless  round  ; 
Th'  interminable  fields  of  space  I  see, 
And,  face  to  face,  I  sit  with  mystery. 
To-night,  O  man  !  thy  quiet  bed  beside, 
Stands  one  from  realms  to  mortal  quest  denied, 
The  well  proved  servant  of  creation's  God. 
He  brings  this  message  : 

On  the  meanest  clod 
Is  Nature's  every  secret  careful  writ, 
And  peer  of  mine  is  he  that  readeth  it. 
But  mad  the  mind  that,  in  its  searching,  dare 
Seek  deeper  than  the  treasure  buried  there  j 
A  fool's  the  fatal  hope  at  last  to  part 
The  sacred  veil  before  the  human  heart. 


TOUNG  TALOUNG. 

O  TRANGER  from  banks  of  far  Menam, 
First  guest  from  Asia's  sacred  shrine, 
Shall  jesters  answer  gray  Siam, 
The  voice  your  land  lifts  up  to  mine  ? 

"Tis  Ava's  court,  not  Laos'  wood, 
Whose  solemn  accent  overawes  ; 

Proclaiming  man's  wide  brotherhood, 
His  varied  lot,  his  common  cause. 

It  says, — "  Beneath  this  humble  mien 
(Hast  not  believed  as  hard  a  thing?) 

His  lofty  spirit  may  be  seen 
That  drank  of  wisdom  at  its  spring. 


i4o  TOUfr*   TALOUNG. 

"  The  patient  one  that  went  apart, 

And,  sorrowing,  sought  the  Noble  Way, 
Victorious  Buddha,  peace  at  heart, 
Here  bides  ere  passed  beyond  the  day. 

"  Shall  ye  his  mysteries  deny 

That  never  have  his  virtues  known  ? 
Well  proved  must  be  the  wings  that  try 
The  upper  air  he  made  his  own. 

"  Belief,  long  cherished,  lends  a  power 
The  scoffer  may  not  hope  to  touch  : 
Ye  are  the  people  of  an  hour, 

Know,  therefore,  ye  must  judge  as  such. 

"  Your  step  is  light,  your  heart  is  young, 
Not  yet  'tis  steepest  where  ye  climb  : 
Below  us  float  the  mists  were  hung 
At  morn  of  unrecorded  time. 


TOUNG   TALOUNG.  14, 

"Angkor— when  was  it  she  did  build, 

Did  all  her  thousand  columns  raise  ? 
Whose  fingers,  as  the  Tuscan's  skilled, 
There  wrought,  and  shamed  succeeding  days  ? 

"  Cambodia's  grasses— lo,  they  wave 

Over  splendors  Memphis  never  saw  ; 
Nor  moulds  a  hand  in  Theban  grave 
Could  teach  her  genius  beauty's  law. 

"  Before  our  shrines  ye  need  not  bow, 
To  judge  between  us— that  defer  ; 
If  ye  are  crowned  with  honor  now, 
Look  back— remember  what  we  were. 

"  Look  back,  then  forward  cast  your  eyes  : 
Perchance  when  ye  are  worn  and  hoar, 
An  infant  race  will  shameless  rise 
To  mock  the  idols  ye  adore." 


THE  SILENT  BLESSING. 

O  thou  and  walk  among  the  dead  ; 
Sweet  as  deep 
Their  endless  sleep : 
The  hearts  that  erewhile,  beating,  bled, 
Are  stopt,  by  peace  eternal  tenanted. 

So  quietly  they  keep 
Their  lowly  bed, 
Go  thou  and  walk  among  the  gentle  dead. 

The  bitter  word  is  as  unsaid, 

; 

Evil  thought 

Can  reach  them  not ; 
If  once  in  paths  of  error  led, 
Now  are  the  mother  arms  of  pity  spread. 

It  is  a  blissful  spot : 


THE  SILENT  BLESSING.  143 

With  reverent  head 

Go  thou  and  stand  beside  the  quiet  dead. 

The  very  light  seems  softer  shed 

On  the  tomb. 

Its  flowers  bloom 

As  though  the  sleeper's  soul,  not  fled, 
But  lingering  near,  their  conscious  colors  fed : 

They  breathe  as  they  perfume, 
Soul-hallowed, 
A  precious  message  from  the  friendly  dead. 

O,  last  of  all,  rest-tenanted, 

From  this  home 

Will  spectre  come  ! 

Ghosts  glide  from  out  the  live  man's  bed, 
Not  from  their  sleep  untouched  by  joy  or  dread : 

No,  never  more  they  roam 
That  lay  the  head 
To  rest  on  peaceful  pillows  of  the  dead. 


144  THE  SILENT  BLESSING. 

Go,  take  the  blessing  of  the  dead  ; 

Draw  thee  near, 

And,  listening,  hear 
The  brave  words  by  the  silence  said 
To  still  the  soul  elsewhere  unanswered 
Ay,  heed  that  accent  clear — 
With  bended  head 
Receive  the  benediction  of  the  dead. 


IN   THE  LANE. 

A  ND  art  thou  then,  my  heart,  too  old 

Ever  to  leap  with  love  again, 
To  feel  the  strong  blood-torrent  rolled 

Through  heaving  breast  and  teeming  brain  ? 
Is  it  no  more,  my  heart,  for  thee 
Life's  one  unquestioned  ecstasy  ? 

Are  faded  quite  those  dim,  far  days 
When  music  mothered  every  sound, 

When  up  and  down  youth's  happy  ways 
Fared  glories  on  eternal  round  ? 

Has  chill  of  years  killed  every  joy 

That  blossomed  for  the  wandering  boy  ? 


i46  IN  THE  LANE. 


These  are  the  trees  once  known  so  well 
We  felt  to  them  all  but  beknown  ; 

Their  very  shadow  we  could  tell 
From  others  by  the  forest  thrown. 

The  same  glad  songs  from  bush  and  bough- 

As  once  we  heard,  we  hear  them  now. 

And  these  sweet  flowers  beneath  my  feet, 
Their  young  eyes  greet  us  as  of  yore. 

The  hope,  there  !     Still  they  think  to  meet 
Her  glance  that  shall  not  answer  more  : 

To  us  alone  it  cannot  be 

They  're  looking  up  so  tenderly. 

This  is  the  same  gray  path  we  took 

Behind  the  slowly  going  day; 
As  they  do  now,  the  light  leaves  shook 

When  evening  breezes  blew  this  way; 
And  there 's  the  glow  upon  the  dome, 
And  here  the  cows  are  coming  home. 


IN  THE  LANE. 


Ah,  no,  good  heart,  thou  still  canst  stir, 
Still  lives  the  love  first  bid  thee  leap  : 

Still  are  we  at  the  side  of  her 

They  laid  away  'neath  yonder  steep. 

Though  clods  be  on  her  and  a  stone, 

In  the  dear  old  lane  we  're  not  alone. 


SONGS, 
i. 

GOOD   BY. 

T  T  is  late,  they  must  not  wait, 

Standing  by  the  wicker  gate  ; 
So  she  gives  her  little  hand, 
Gives  her  little  dimpled  hand  : 
'  A  kiss,"  he  says,  "  pray,  not  a  sigh, 
And  sweet,  my  girl,  good  by— good  by  !  " 

Night  to  night,  and  day  to  day, 
Run  the  summer  hours  away  ; 
Moon  to  moon,  and  sun  to  sun, 
Merry,  merry  do  they  run  ; 


149 


Still,  still  she  answers  with  a  sigh, 

His,  "  Sweet,  my  girl,  good  by — good  by  !  " 

Light  he  said  it,  and  was  gone, 
But  she  hears  it  echo  on  ; 
She  must  hear  it  ever  so, 
Hear  it  though  he  never  know  ; 
Ay,  her  last  breath  will,  answ'ring,  sigh,— 
"  Good  by,  my  Love— a  long  good  by  !  " 


II. 

BY  AND   BY. 

*\  T  7HERE  blossoms  grow, 

And  winds  are  low, 
And  brooks  run  lightly  by, 
There  would  we  be, 
'Neath  a  greenwood  tree, 
My  Love  and  I — 
My  Love  and  I. 


ISO  SONGS. 


But  Fate  says,  "  No  "; 

He  hates  us  so 

That  it  were  vain  to  try. 

We  '11  never  be 

'Neath  the  greenwood  tree, 

My  Love  and  I — 

My  Love  and  I. 

But,  O,  one  day 

We  '11  steal  away  ; 

We'll  cheat  him,  by  and  by, 

Asleep  all  sound 

'Neath  a  mossy  mound, 

My  Love  and  I — 

My  Love  and  I  ! 


WHAT'S   IN   THIS  CHRISTMAS   DAY? 

\  T  THAT 'S  in  this  Christmas  day  ? 

Let  Time's  hoary  warders  say. 
The  Saxon  grim — 
There  's  some  of  him  ; 
The  Druid's  hand  is  here, 
The  Greek  and  Roman  cheer  : 
From  East  and  West 
Is  gathered  of  the  best, 
From  the  new  and  from  the  old — 
All  the  glorious  day  will  hold. 
From  whitest  sands  to  lichened  rock 
The  doors  of  Hope  unlock, 
The  gates  of  Peace  swing  wide, 
At  coming  of  bright  Christmas-tide. 


i52         WHAT  'S  IN   THIS  CHRISTMAS  DAY? 

Saturn's  temples  fair 
Are  glistening  in  the  air, 
Thor's  huge  torches  flare 
In  the  dark  forest,  there  ; 
And,  hark  !  from  sea  to  sea 
The  rouse  of  Bacchus  breaks 
Upon  the  quiet  till  it  quakes 
With  revelry. 
From  the  olive  to  the  oak, 
With  blithe  and  mighty  stroke 
Bells  of  the  ages  ring, 
And  the  little  children  sing  : 
For  the  lifting  of  the  yoke, 
For  the  giving  to  the  poor  ; 
For  that  all-excelling  art, 
The  building  of  the  heart ; 
For  the  good  that  shall  endure — 
For  the  sure  and  lasting  good 
Of  a  common  brotherhood — 
The  bells  of  centuries  ring 


WHAT  'S  IN  THIS  CHRIS  TAT  AS  DAY? 

In  a  song 

Loud  and  long, 

And  the  little  children  sing. 

The  bands  of  holly  bound, 

The  wreaths  of  ivy  wound 

On  brow  and  pillar ;  pine 

And  fir — all  from  the  mother  ground 

That  speaks  of  hope — how  they  twine 

It  as  they  sing, 

How  proudly  wear  it  as  they  bring 

From  heaven's  height, 

Tidings  of  delight  ! 

Wind  the  holly  crown, 

Bind  the  ivy  down  ; 

From  soul  to  soul 

Send  round  the  brimming  bowl  ; 

Drink  deep,  and  sing 

As  the  proud  bells  swing, 

As  the  loud  bells  ring :     $  • 


154         WHAT  'S  IN   THIS  CHRISTMAS  DAY' 

"  Chime — chime — chime, 
Tis  Christmas-time  ; 
Over  the  earth 
Mercy,  hope,  and  mirth  !  " 

The  pagan — shut  him  not  away  ; 

This  is  the  wide  world's  day. 

All  have  their  part — the  dead,  the  live, 

They  that  have  striven,  they  that  strive, 

On  rising  wings, 

Toward  better  things. 

Day-long  let  joy  go  on  ; 

And  when  the  splendid  sun  is  gone, 

Set  the  candle  and  the  brand 

Aflame  from  land  to  land  ! 

Hope  all  round  us  wide  and  high, 

Clear  and  perfect  as  the  sky — 

Hope,  strong  hope  that  cannot  die, 

Welcome  the  pagan  to  his  part 

In  the  building  of  the  heart : 


WHAT  'i'  IN   THIS  CHRISTMAS  DAY?         155 

Nor  time  nor  space  shall  dare  divide, 
Nor  race  nor  faith,  nor  aught  beside, 
Children  of  men  at  Christmas-tide  ! 

Let  help  who  can 
That  bears  the  name  of  man, 
Help  in  his  chosen  way 
To  keep  this  festal  day. 
But  over  other  glories  all, 
Shining  high  and  far, 
Lo,  the  stopt,  regardful  star 
Above  the  cradle  in  the  stall ! 
Where  the  angels  met  together 
With  shepherds  in  the  shining  weather- 
There  's  the  fountain  of  this  song, 
Song  of  ages,  sweet  and  strong  ; 
Thence  the  deathless  voice 
That  bids  the  world  rejoice, 
Thence  the  loosing  of  the  slave, 
The  conquering  of  the  grave. 


i56          WHAT  'S  IN   THIS  CHRISTMAS  DAY? 

Who  shall  heed  what  Sorrow  saith  ? 

Who  tremble  at  the  name  of  Death  ? 

Swing — swing — 

Hear  the  great  bells  ring, 

And  the  little  children  sing  ! 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  standing  wide- 

Tis  glorious  Christmas-tide  ! 


GREAT   IS  TO-DAY. 

/~\UT  on  a  world  that 's  gone  to  weed  ! 

The  great  tall  corn  is  still  strong  in  his  seed  ; 
Plant  her  breast  with  laughter,  put  song  in  your  toil, 
The  heart  is  still  young  in  the  mother  soil : 
There  's  sunshine  and  bird-song,  and  red  and  white 

clover, 
And  love  lives  yet,  world  under  and  over. 

The  light 's  white  as  ever,  sow  and  believe  ; 
Clearer  dew  did  not  glisten  round  Adam  and  Eve, 
Never  bluer  heavens  nor  greener  sod 
Since  the  round  world  rolled  from  the  hand  of  God  : 
There  's  a  sun  to  go  down,  to  come  up  again, 
There  are  new  moons  to  fill  when  the  old  moons  wanr. 


158  GREA  T  IS   TO-DA  Y. 

Is  wisdom  dead  since  Plato  's  no  more, 

Who  '11  that  babe  be,  in  yon  cottage  door  ? 

While  your  Shakspeare,  your  Milton,  takes  his  place 

in  the  tomb 

His  brother  is  stirring  in  the  good  mother-womb  : 
There  's  glancing  of  daisies  and  running  of  brooks, 
Ay,  life  enough  left  to  write  in  the  books. 

The  world 's  not  all  wisdom,  nor  poems,  nor  flowers, 
But  each  day  has  the  same  good  twenty-four  hours, 
The  same  light,  the  same  night.  For  your  Jacobs, 

no  tears  ; 

They  see  the  Rachels  at  the  end  of  the  years  : 
There  's  waving  of  wheat,  and  the  tall  strong  corn, 
And  his  heart  blood  is  water  that  sitteth  forlorn. 


EVERY  ONE  TO   HIS  OWN  WAY. 

K  leaves  are  big  as  the  mouse's  ear, 
So,  farmer,  go  plant.     But  the  frost — 
Beware,  the  witch  o'  the  year 

Her  breast  hath  crost ! 
The  bee  is  abroad,  and  the  ant, 
Spider  is  busy  :  ho,  farmer,  go  plant. 

The  wind  blows  soft  from  the  sailless  sea, 
So,  merchant,  rig  ship.     But  the  wave — 

Beware,  salt  water  can  be 
A  cruiser's  grave  ! 

Bring  silks  for  milady,  make  trip 

For  wines  and  spices  :  ho,  merchant,  rig  ship. 


160  EVERY  ONE   TO  HIS  OWN  WAY. 

I  heard  round  oath  at  the  churchyard  door, 
So,  preacher,  go  preach.     But  the  Book — 

Let  net  staff  handle  twist  more 
Than  shepherd's  crook. 

A  Heaven  and  a  Hell  within  reach, 

And  time  spares  no  man  :    good  preacher,  go 
preach. 

Go  till  the  fields,  and  go  ride  the  sea, 
Go  solace  or  torture  mewed  folk  ; 

From  frost  and  storm  be  you  free, 
And  Devil's  joke. 

I  '11  sit  in  my  doorway,  God  please, 

Quietly  looking  between  the  green  trees. 


THE  GOOD  OLD-TIME. 

"\  T  7 HAT  worth  have  your  mansions,  your  gold 
and  your  glory, 

When  the  thought,  the  heart,  is  away, 
Somewhere  betwixt  the  lintel  and  shingles 

Of  a  cot  of  a  by-gone  day  ? 

A  gray  old  orchard,  scarred  as  by  battle, 

Stiff  poplars  out  there,  before, 
Dandelions,  lilacs,  and  no-name  roses, 

And  the  pewee  over  the  door  ; 

Staunch  weeds,  and  grasses  that  challenge  the  winter, 

Wild  cherries,  red  ripe  on  the  wall, 
The  song  of  the  birds  in  the  hush  of  the  morning, 

At  evening,  the  low  cattle-call ; 


1 62  THE  GOOD   OLD-TIME. 

Savage  paths  a-bristle  with  burdock  and  thistle, 

Strong  sun,  and  shadow  as  strong, 
Quick  brooks  that  learn  the  song  of  the  upland, 

And  sing  it  the  still  night  long  ; 

Dewdrops  and  daisies,  green  grass  and  the  robins, 

All  glitter  and  twitter  and  sweet 
From  the  cloud  and  the  mist  that  meet  on  the  moun 
tain 

To  the  spider-nets  under  the  feet ; 

The  clover,  the  laughter,  the  chat  in  the  shadow, 

The  noon  horn's  lusty  alarm, 
The  halting  mower,  with  a  stroke  at  the  sweat  bee, 

Slow  dropping  his  brown  bare  arm  ; — 

What  are  your  mansions  when  these  come  and  fash 
ion 

Their  dream  wonders,  day  by  day, 
Weaving  spring  and  summer  and  autumn  together, 

In  their  own  dear  wayward  way  ? 


THE  GOOD  OLD-TIME.  163 

The  march  is  forward,  the  past  is  in  ashes, 
From  the  old  like  a  flame  springs  the  new  ; 

But  the  boy  in  my  heart  with  a  shout  will  follow 
Where  the  mowers  swing  out  in  the  dew. 


A 


GRANTHER. 

GRAND  old  man, 
Built  after  the  olden  plan  ; 
A  muscular  body,  a  massive  head, 
A  man  to  be  with  till  his  years  are  fled, 
A  man  to  remember  when  dead  : 
His  smile,  the  wise  look 
From  the  chimney  nook, 
Where  he  whiffs  and  he  whews 
While  I  read  him  the  news  ! 

"Who  'skilled,  to-day?" 

He  asks  in  his  ancient  way  ; 
"And  what  have  they  stolen,  this  time,  my  lad? 
The  rascals,  they  push  it  like  pusley,  egad  : 
Bad  works,  boy,  bad — very  bad  ! " 


GRANTHER.  165 


The  pipe  gets  a  slide 

To  the  other  side  ; 

How  he  puffs  it  and  whews, 

Keeping  up  with  the  news  ! 

A  character  ! 

When  he  opens,  "  I  tell  ye,  sir, 
There  's  nothing  like  knowing  cheese  from  chalk," 
Or,  "Square-toed,  young  man,  if  you're  goin'  to 

walk,"— 
It 's  none  of  your  modern  talk. 

Run  the  text  as  it  may, 

He  's  something  to  say, 

Be  you  never  so  clever, 

Will  squelch  you  forever 

He  's  so  complete 

From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  his  feet, 
Close  grained,  through  and  through  of  good  oak 

stuff. 

1  Nonsense,"  he  says  ;  "  no  trouble  so  tough 
But  good  back-bone  is  doctor  enough." 


166  GRANTHER. 


He  's  the  heart  of  the  farm, 
Still  its  strong  right  arm  : 
How  he  smiles  and  he  smokes 
Between  sermons  and  jokes  ! 


A  SAINT   OF  YORE. 

rT^HERE  lived  of  yore  a  saintly  dame, 
Retired  of  life,  unknown  to  fame, 
Whose  wont  it  was  with  sweet  accord 
To  do  the  bidding  of  her  Lord. 
In  quaintly-fashioned  bonnet 
With  simplest  ribbons  on  it, 
The  neighboring  folk  remember  well 
How  prompt  she  was  at  Sabbath  bell. 

I  see  her,  now,  her  decent  shawl, 
Her  sober  gown,  silk  mitts,  and  all ; 
Again  I  see  her  with  a  smile 
Pass  meekly  up  the  narrow  aisle. 
The  deacons  courtly  meet  her, 
The  pastor  turns  to  greet  her, 


1 68  A    SAINT  OF  YORE. 

And  maid  and  matron  quit  their  place 
To  find  her  fan  or  smooth  her  lace. 

Of  all  the  souls  that  worshipped  there, 
She  best  became  the  House  of  Prayer  : 
Her  gracious  presence — from  it  beamed 
The  light  that  robes  the  Lord's  redeemed. 
That  gentle  mien  did  often 
Some  "hardened  sinner"  soften, 
Whose  thought  had  else  turned  light  away 
From  rigid  lesson  of  the  day. 

Her  eyes,  with  reverent  reading  dim, 
Sought  neither  chapter-page  nor  hymn, 
She  knew  them  both  ;  and  as  in  song 
Her  voice  kept  evenly  along, 
'Twas  not  so  much  like  singing 
As  like  the  music  clinging 
About  some  sacred  instrument, 
Its  lessening  breath  not  wholly  spent. 


A   SAINT  OF  YORE.  1(5g 

Still,  one  by  one,  the  good  folk  fill 
The  little  church  upon  the  hill — 
The  little  church  with  open  door, 
Just  as  it  stood  in  days  of  yore, 
The  grass  around  it  growing 
For  nearest  neighbors'  mowing, 
The  row  of  battered  sheds  behind 
Ready  to  rattle  with  the  wind. 

Old  Groveland  Church  !     I  mark  it  well, 
From  weathered  steps  to  belfry  bell. 
Few  changes,  there  ;  but  in  yon  ground 
Have  thickened  fast  the  slab  and  mound. 
Hark  !     Shall  I  join  the  praises  ? 
Rather,  among  the  daisies, 
Let  me,  in  peaceful  thought,  once  more 
Be  silent  with  the  saint  of  yore. 


THE  OLD  FARM   BARN. 

HPHE  maples  look  down  with  bright  eyes  in  their 

leaves, 

The  clear  drops  drip  from  the  swallow-built 'eaves, 
The  chickens  find  shelter,  the  cisterns  fill ; 
There  's  a  busier  whirr  from  the  wheels  of  the  mill, 
The  pond  is  all  dimples  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  the  miller  smiles  back  from  his  place  in  the  door  ; 
Slow  mists  from  the  mountains  come  drifting  down, 
The  houses  show  fainter  afar  in  the  town, 
The  gust  sweeps  up,  dies  away  again, 
Then,  loud  and  fast,  the  rap-tap  of  the  rain  : 
For  all  yonder  sun  'tis  my  heart's  rainy  day 
In  the  old  farm  barn,  with  the  children  at  play. 


THE  OLD  FARM  BARN.  171 

The  oxen  chew  slowly,  with  sleepy  eyes, 
The  huddling  sheep  shrink  to  half  their  size, 
The  dazed  calves  stare  at  the  dingy  wall, 
Old  Nancy  looks  soberly  out  from  her  stall, 
Tiger  Puss  crouches  close  to  the  mouse's  hole, 
Caesar  gnaws  boldly  a  bone  that  he  stole — 
Over  all,  the  roof  and  the  dance  of  the  rain. 
Not  a  sorrowing  thought,  not  a  touch  of  pain  ; 
The  old  farm  barn  is  so  dusk  and  still 
The  spiders  sleep  on  the  window  sill : 
'Tis  the  hush,  the  drowse  of  the  rainy  day, 
And  I  'm  leaping  again  from  the  beam  to  the  hay. 

Up,  chunky  George  of  the  woodchuck  race  ! 
Hist,  withy  Ben,  with  the  chipmunk  face  ! 
This  way,  broad  Bill,  with  the  trousers  wide  ! 
Come,  stumbling  Tom,  with  the  big  toe  tied  ! — 
The  scramble  is  made  up  the  shaky  stairs, 
Hatless  and  breathless,  we  stand  in  pairs  ; 
Bawling  Bob  gives  the  word,  and  down  we  go 


i-/2  THE  OLD  FARM  BARN. 

From  the  cobwebbed  beam  to  the  bay  below. 
The  sport  is  forbidden,  hence  double  the  zest ; 
More  risks  than  the  damage  to  breeches  or  vest 
Aha  !  he  's  no  coward  gets  sprout,  to-day, 
For  bliss  of  the  leap  from  the  beam  to  the  hay  ! 

Oh,  the  way  of  the  world,  its  worry  and  strife — 
The  wrestle,  the  battle,  that  men  call  "life "  ! 
On  us  all,  at  times,  may  the  noon  sun  shine, 
It  may  warm  to  your  heart,  may  warm  to  mine, 
But  the  joy  long  gone,  though  never  so  small, 
Compared  with  joys  present,  is  worth  them  all. 
The  future  we  know  not,  but  safe  is  the  past, 
And  the  first  we  loved  we  love  to  the  last ; 
The  dearer  gifts,  the  longer  we  live, 
Are  the  quiet  joys  our  memories  give  : 
Ay,  back,  my  heart,  to  the  rainy  day — 
To  the  old  farm  barn  and  the  children  at  play. 


AUTO  DA  FE. 

T  T  EIGH-HO,  a  drowsy,  drippy  day 

Suits  well  your  single  gentlemen 
Whose  locks  begin  to  show  the  gray. 
The  grizzly  drizzle  round  my  "den" — 
'Tis  sent  on  purpose,  I  dare  say, 
For  bachelor's  A^^to  da  fe. 
I  have  the  ribboned  missives,  here, 
The  hearth  flames  flicker  low,  but  clear, 
The  spell  is  on— the  savage  spell 
To  do  the  burning  quickly,  well : 
So,  to  it. 

Heavens  !  how  old  am  I  ? 
It  seems  a  hundred  years  since  she 
That  inked  this  paper  said  to  me, 
'You  will  be  older,  by  and  by." 


AUTO  DA   FJE. 


I  was  a  beardless  rover,  then, 
With  dreamy  brain,  and  ready  pen, 
At  sight  of  form  or  features  fair, 
To  write  a  ditty  of  despair. 
Well,  Constance,  I  am  older,  now  ; 
And  you  ?    The  marble  of  that  brow 
Must  have  its  channels  deep  and  bold  ; 
High  time  that  love  'twixt  us  was  cold.- 
Spring  up,  you  little  tongues  of  fire, 
For  I  begin  the  precious  pyre. — 


These  ?    These  from  stately  Margaret. 
I  never  loved  her,  never  ;  yet 
There  was  a  something  us  between 
That  keeps  a  spear  of  memory  green— 
A  plucky,  strong,  unbrothered  blade, 
Still  smiling  in  its  depth  of  shade. 
Well  trained  the  hand  that  down  this  page 
Drew  line  to  line  ;  each  letter  clear 


AUTO  DA 


And  firm  from  "  Honest  John,  my  dear," 
Far  as  the  awkward  word,  "engage." 

"  Engage,"  again  !     Did  I  propose ? 

11  Engage  "  !     I  '11  read  on  to  the  close.— 
Tall  Margaret,  if  this  be  true, 
In  those  young  days  what  didn't  I  do  ? 
For  shame !— Up,  up,  good  flames  !   To  you 
I  toss  this  ample  package,  too.— 

There  's  nothing  like  a  rainy  day 
When  one  would  put  old  loves  away  : 
Between  the  water  and  the  fire, 
The  fated  passions  soon  expire. 
Ha,  this  snug  bundle— what  an  air 
Of  pride  about  it !     What  a  care 
To  make  a  fellow  bite  the  dust : 
"  Down  on  your  knee,  you  must,  you  must !  " 
And  probably  I  did  go  down, 
— General  prostration  seized  the  town — 
In  fact,  I  know  I  did  ;  but,  then, 


AUTO  DA 


Somehow  I  found  my  feet  again. 

A  girl 's  a  girl,  a  boy  's  a  fool, 

And  life — it  proves  a  sorry  school. — 

Imperial  Fair  (for  thou  wert  fair 

As  any  breathing  lower  air), 

I  do  forgive  all  injury 

Thou  didst  to  either  heart  or  knee. 

I  spy  a  word,  now  here,  now  there, 

That  shows  you  could  a  little  "  care  "; 

Right  royal  Lois,  'tis  too  late.— 

Receive  these  proudly,  gentle  grate. — 

And  now,  to  Helen.     Taste  of  wine 
Is  on  my  lips,  and  all  sweet  spices  : 
This  dark-eyed  one  had  been  divine 
But  for  some  few  mundane  devices. 
She  traced  these  pages  sharp  and  fast 
As  hailstones  drive  on  the  winter  blast 
Tame  passion  Helen  never  knew, 
A  very  hurricane  she  blew, 


AUTO  DA   F£.  177 


Or  sat  in  midst  of  awful  calm. 

No  other  ever  sang  a  psalm 

As  she  could  sing  it,  on  occasion  ; 

Another's  eyes  did  never  play 

Such  pranks  after  the  operation. 

'Twas  hard  to  know  which  way  to  take  her, 

But  rare  the  wooer  would  forsake  her 

For  charmer  of  a  surer  mind. — 

Angel  with  a  dash  of  the  tiger  kind, 

Love's  leopard — Helen,  off  and  on, 

We  loved  it  madly,  years  agone  ! 

When  you  were  married — 

Blaze,  bright  pyre  ; 
I  add  these,  also— fire  to  fire.— 

And  still  the  rain,  the  gray,  gray  rain  ; 
And  there  's  that  last  year's  leak  again. — 
Rustum,  why  can't  you  bring  a  pail 
'Twixt  swings  of  that  eternal  tail  ?— 
'Tis  almost  done  ;  one  offering  more. 


AUTO  DA 


What  says  the  clock  ?    Quarter  of  four.- 
Rustum,  old  fellow,  foul  or  fair, 
You  're  right :  we  'd  better  take  the  air. 
These  last — these  little  yellow  scraps, 
Good  fire,  ere  long,  perhaps — perhaps. 


AN   EPISTLE  TO   A  BACHELOR. 

«  T3  ESOLVED,  at  last,  to  woo  and  wed  : " 
•"    This  ill  accords  with  what  we  said 
In  those  triumphant  days,  old  fellow, 
When,  with  good  "  Park  and  Tilford  "  mellow» 
Health  after  health  went  round  the  "den,"— 

"  Here 's  to  all  single  gentlemen  ! " 

Though  not  so  strange  as  it  first  appears, 

(Grave  Horace  fell  at  fifty  years) 

Still,  as  I  read  on,  sombre  hues 

Did  follow,  bordering  on  the  "  blues," 

And  sounds,  as  when  the  late  leaves  stir, 

Crept  heartward  from  the  days  that  were. 


i8o  AN  EPISTLE    TO  A   BACHELOR. 

The  hint  is  dropt  with  caution  nice, 
You  'd  not  despise  a  bard's  advice  : 
Accept  some  facts  as  one  may  hand  'em, 
Not  without  thought,  but  still  at  random. 

Sweet  Eve,  ensconced  'neath  Eden's  tree, 

Inducted  woman's  ministry  ; 

Potent  not  only  over  Adam, 

But,  fast  as  after  mothers  had  'em, 

Reaching  each  son  of  every  race 

Destined  to  grievance  or  to  grace. 

This  doctrine  courses  Sacred  Writ, 
And  pagan  lore  continues  it : 
Beloved  of  gods,  high  Hebe  stumbled — 
Again  was  heavenly  woman  humbled. 
Thence  down,  pursue  her  where  you  will, 
The  first  grand  failure  follows  still. 

Let  me  be  last  to  slight  the  pearl 
That  glistens  in  the  dimpled  girl ; 


AN  EPISTLE   TO  A   BACHELOR.  181 

But,  ah,  it  tarnishes  with  years, 

At  length  in  dullness  disappears. 

Ever  from  April  to  October 

Does  transient  beauty  hasten  sober  ; 

And,  finally,  in  dread  November 

Comes  unconditional  surrender. 

The  brightest  shiner  in  the  brook 

Is  an  ugly  wriggler  on  the  hook  ; 

A  star  the  fire-fly  sparkles  by, 

Get  fingers  on  it,  'tis — a  fly. 

At  least  have  cunning  of  your  cat : 

He  's  fond  of  fish,  but,  for  all  that, 

No  trout  can  tempt  him  in  deep  water 

As  you  must  wade  for  beauty's  daughter. 

O  beatific  solitude 

Where  only  bachelors  intrude, 
While  round  the  edges  of  your  shade 
Inspiring  moves  th'  occasional  maid  ! — 

William,  so  earnest,  able,  true, 
I  prophesied  high  deeds  for  you  : 


182  AN  EPISTLE   TO  A   BACHELOR. 

I  deemed  you  would  a  banyan  be — 

A  noble  forest  in  one  tree, 

Huge  protest  'gainst  all  huddling  men. 

I  thought  you  'd  teach  the  world  that  when 

The  solitary  seeker  calls, 

Some  Newton's  apple  timely  falls, 

That  lamp  of  Galileo  swings 

For  them  that  think,  alone  with  things. 

The  wisest  of  all  brutes  that  be, 

breeds  not  in  mean  captivity  : 

Genius  is  not  gregarious,  Will. — 

And  here  a  pause  to  point  my  quill 


How  villainous  to  so  defame 

Sweet  innocents  with  touch  of  blame  ! 

I  '11  play  the  hypocrite  no  longer. 

'Twas  thus  we  put  it — only  stronger — 

In  days  by-gone.     Changed,  changed  since  then 

The  tyros  of  the  Broadway  "den." 


AN  EPISTLE   TO  A   BACHELOR.  183 

1  Onward,  onward  to  something  better  !  " 
Now  cries  the  writer  of  this  letter. 
The  dears  shall  be  no  more  derided  : 
Say  prayers,  my  boy,  and — do  as  I  did. 


BROTHER  BACHELOR  BATRACHIAN. 

" wears  yet  a  jewel  in  his  head." 

TT  O,  hermit  of  the  cellar  wall, 

If  you  are  coming  out  at  all, 
Come  now  ;  in  thirty  minutes  more 
The  rain  will  trickle  down  your  door. 
Make  haste,  my  boy  ;  this  ceaseless  drizzle 
Would  prove  most  friendship  sheerest  fizzle, 
But  we  old  jovies,  once  together, 
Have  nought  to  fear  from  wind  or  weather. 
Come,  come  ;  hurrah,  there,  bachelor  lump  ! 
Betwixt  a  waddle  and  a  jump, 
Judge-like  ascend  your  own  toad-stool 
Worked  out  last  night  by  wizard's  tool. 


BROTHER  BACHELOR  BATRACHIAN.         185 

Ha,  there  you  are,  sedate  as  ever  ; 
Prodigious  plain,  but  passing  clever. 
The  years  are  twenty  to  a  day 
Since  you  and  I  first  sat  this  way  ; 
How  many  more  think  you  to  squat, 
Contented,  on  our  pleasant  spot  ? 
Be  frank  with  me,  you  wily  monk, 
Impervious,  solemn,  clumsy  chunk  ! 


What  mischief  are  you  plotting,  now, 

Squaring  about  Sou'- West  by  Sou'  ? 

A  weather-cock  with  half  the  pains 

Can  nose  precise  a  dozen  rains. 

Be  seated.     It  is  rather  cold 

Way  down  there  in  your  stony  hold? 

Those  dungeon  vapors — don't  you  think 

They  make  the  spirits  sort  of  sink, 

Partic'larly  when  stingy  fate 

Too  long  withholds  the  cheery  mate  ? 


186         BROTHER  BACHELOR  BATRACHIAN. 

Let  go  in  peace  that  fiftieth  fly  ; 

Another  morsel,  a'nd  you  die  ! 

With  your  last  testament  unsigned, 

How  dare  you  gorge  yourself  stone  blind? 

A  risky  situation  that 

When  toads  are  twenty-odd,  and  fat. 

Feel  nervous,  fellow  ?     Pshaw  !  lean  back, 

And  from  your  buff  aldermanic  sack 

Puff  out  the  truth  for  once  and  all : 

Your  mind's  made  up  to  wed,  this  fall, 

Good  year  ;  whatever  comes  to  pass, 

The  insects  in  the  garden  sauce 

Alone,  I  '11  guarantee  to  load 

With  plenty  all  the  tribe  of  toad. 

My  hand,  old  dumps  !  a  worthy  wife 

Will  lift  you  to  a  higher  life : 

The  dumb  inflation  of  that  cheek 

Will  yield  to  maxims  Solons  speak, 

In  pleas  for  daily  peace  and  ease 

You  may  prove  second  Socrates. 


BROTHER  BACHELOR  BATRACHIAN.          187 

Why,  one  lone  toad  down  in  the  wall, 
Is  a  wart  heap,  no  toad  at  all. 

There— don't  repeat  that  deac'nish  wink  ; 

I  know  exactly  what  you  think. 

Somebody  (not  far  off)  has  had 

His  youthful  frolics,  good  and  bad, 

His  salad  antics  :  dare  he  vow 

He  's  got  well  over  'em  ?    How  's  that — how  ? 

Warm  evenings,  just  outside  the  walk, 

Those  cooings  by  the  cabbage  stalk  ! 

Droll  chap,  I  grant  you  're  old  and  fat, 

And  may  have  nieces  and  all  that ; 

But  when  with  her  you  claim  relation — 

Blood  ties  remotest  in  creation, 

I  'd  have  you  know  it  won't  go  down 

Though  backed  by  every  toad  in  town. 

Sit  still,  no  offence :  I  can't  help  joking, 
Moment  I  see  that  stub  nose  poking 


x88         BROTHER   BACHELOR  BATRACHIAN. 

Into  the  light.      You  take  a  mate — 
Prepost'rous  ! —    Certainly  ;  too  late. 
At  your  age,  better  a  hangman's  halter 
Than  the  kind  they  're  led  with  to  the  altar. 
Heaven  spare  the  storms  that  we  can't  weather, 
We  two  old  jovies,  here  together. — 

Heigh-ho,  the  gentle,  misty  rain 
Is  coming  down  the  hill  again. 
Did  you  perceive  just  what  was  meant 
'Bout  that  Last  Will  and  Testament  ? 

Grave  Bachelor  Batrachian,  pray 
What  sense  in  sidling  off  that  way  ? 
Ridiculous  old  rogue  !     Turn  round, 
You  baggy  wag  from  underground  ! 
No  other  eyes  see  well  as  mine 
How  bright  your  inner  riches  shine  : 
Long  may  they  live  when  you  are  dead — 
Leave  me  the  jewel  in  your  head. 


OUR  OPHIDIAN   FRIEND. 

/CYLINDRICAL  thing 

Without  leg,  without  wing, 
Glazed  membrane  stuffed  with  motion,- 
I  hold  the  heretical  notion 
That  because  you  crawl 
Is  no  reason  at  all 
For  laying  so  odious  stress 
The  length  of  your  lowliness 

A  walk  or  a  glide, 

A  stride  or  a  slide, 

A  trip  or  a  slip, 

A  skate  or  a  skip, 

It's  one  and  the  same  to  me, 

Sly,  India-rubber  iniquity  ! 


OUR  OPHIDIAN  FRIEND. 


And  as  to  your  morals,  there,  too,  I  Ve  suspicion 

We  harp  overhard  on  the  point  of  position. 

I  admit  you  do  things  not  precisely  right  — 

It  's  rather  erroneous,  for  instance,  to  bite  — 

But  we  all  have  our  lapses,  perhaps  full  as  serious 

As  those  at  your  threshold,  twister  mischievous. 

To  travel  way  back  to  the  start  of  the  world, 

When  in  grasses  of  Eden  your  ancestors  curled, 

Resurrecting  malfeasance  from  time  out  of  mind, 

Limp  ringler,  I  say  it  's  a  little  unkind. 

Suppose  in  snakeskin  a  wretch  did  deceive 

The  lady  initial,  ingenuous  Eve  ; 

In  their  own  skins,  to-day,  that  's  exact  what  men  do, 

Then  put  the  whole  blame  (and  the  bludgeon)  on  you. 

Your  forefathers,  likely,  were  up  to  their  tricks, 

But  the  fault,  after  all,  was  plainly  Old  Nick's  ; 

And  if  only  your  paths  are  sinlessly  slid, 

Why  should  we  care  a  rap  what  your  granddaddy  did  ? 

Poor  animate  string  of  the  glittering  eye, 

If  you  '11  look  to  your  head,  to  my  heels  will  I  : 


OUR  OPHIDIAN  FRIEND. 


As  for  me  and  my  house,  we  '11  never  inveigh 
'Gainst  a  ribbon  that  harmlessly  garters  our  way, 
Nor  with  cudgel  from  cactus  or  Calvin  hewed, 
Fall  thwacking  its  limber  longitude. 

Abused,  abjured  Ophidian, 

Bask  on  in  peace  meridian  ; 
The  more  of  the  tale  of  the  Tempter  they  make, 
The  closer  I  '11  hold  to  the  tail  of  the  snake. 


SILVER  BELL. 

A  FAR,  in  scarred  Nevada, 

There  sat  in  the  smoky  gloom, 
A  group  of  riotous  outlaws, 
'Round  Rennigan's  gambling-room. 

They  had  won  and  lost  and  settled, 
Forgot  the  dice  and  cards  ; 

And  now  they  drank,  and  storied 
Of  foes  and  doughty  "  pards." 

The  storm  was  at  the  maddest, 
With  oaths  and  laughter-blast, 

When  into  their  midst  ('twas  morning, 
Three  o'clock  and  past,) 


SILVER  BELL.  193 


An  old  man  crept  from  his  corner  ; 

Weighing  each  braggart  word, 
He  sat  there,  bowed  and  silent, 

A-nodding  as  he  heard. 

Sat  silent  till  fierce  Bigglin, 
Glancing  from  guest  to  guest, 

Cried,  "  Clash  with  me  your  glasses, 
The  '  shot  of  all  the  West ! '  " 

Then  spoke  the  old  man,  shaking 
His  long  locks,  loose  and  white, 

Hold,  there  !    Bold  words  and  hasty  ; 
Wait  till  the  morning  light." — 

1  Old  chap,  no  more  ;  you  're  rattled, 

There  's  dry  stuff  in  your  brain  ; 
Open  and  wet  your  whistle, 
Nor  let  it  blow  again." 


194  SILVER  BELL. 


So  jeered  young  yeasty  Bigglin, 
Filling  the  old  man's  glass. — 
"  I  '11  drink  ;  and  you — you  will  listen 
To  what  once  came  to  pass. 

"  Here  's  health  to  you,  young  Bigglin, 

Live  long — till  you  be  wise  ! " 
The  old  man  drank,  and  faced  them, 
The  fire  tonguing  up  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  've  heard  of  Battle  Mountain, 

The  home  of  Silver  Bell ; 
'Tis  there  they  tell  a  story 
And  that 's  the  tale  I  tell." 

They  stopt  him,  filled  their  glasses — 
"  Both  names — we  know  'em  well. 

The  lass  of  Battle  Mountain, 
Drink,  drink  to  Silver  Bell !  "— 


SILVER  BELL.  195 


"  Ay,  drink  ;  but  had  you  known  her, 
Felt  her  black  hair,  wave  on  wave, 
That  caught  with  the  crush  of  the  serpent, 
And  held  with  the  strength  of  the  grave  !  "- 

"Hear  him  !    So  you,  too,  loved  her, 

Before  your  pulse  was  gone. 
And  still  on  top  and  hearty  : 
Bravo  !  old  man,  go  on." — 

"  The  guess  was  easy.     Loved  her  ? 

I  loved  her,  loved  her  well : 
Love  followed,  close  as  her  shadow, 
Fawn-footed  Silver  Bell. 

"  But  I  must  keep  to  my  story 

Of  two,  you  understand, 
Two  lovers  who,  belting  their  pistols, 
Went  up  to  seek  her  hand. 


196  SILVER  BELL. 


11 '  What !    By  blue  heaven,'  exclaimed  she, 

'  Come  you  to  shoot  me  down  ! 
I  '11  whip  my  pretty  pearl-hilt, 
And  march  you  back  to  town.' 

"  Low  bowed  Nevada's  Marksman, — 

'  We  come  to  see  how  well 
We  can  cut  a  gray  hawk-feather 
From  the  hand  of  Silver  Bell.' 

"  At  the  side  of  his  haughty  rival, 

Low  bowed  young  Shooting  Star, — 
'  Safe  the  little  brown  fingers  ; 
You  know  what  shots  we  are.' 

She  took  the  gray  hawk-feather, 

And  tossed  her  round,  bare  head, — 
1  What  if  you  nick  a  finger  ? ' 

'We  Ve  fixed  that  point,'  they  said. 


SILVER  BELL.  197 


"  She  twirled  and  twirled  the  feather 
In  that  small  hand,  like  the  cone 
Of  the  fir  in  its  turn  and  taper, 
And  brown  as  the  brown  madrone. 

"  Firm,  then,  the  trim  deer-ankles  ; 

With  the  feather  at  arm's  end, 
She  stood  and  waved  them  backward 
To  the  shade  of  Hazel  Bend."— 

"  I'  God's  name,  which  first  tried  it?" 
The  Kid  of  the  Cliff  shrill  cried.— 

"  The  lot  fell  to  the  Marksman — 
The  girl's  hand  to  her  side." — 

"  Coward  !  he  struck  a  finger." — 

' '  Touched  one  ;  but  a  coward — stay. 
The  second  shot  he  bettered 
The  aim  at  the  feather  gray  : 


I98  SILVER  BELL. 


"  He  turned  the  muzzle  homeward, 
And  like  a  clod  he  fell  "— 

"  By  God  "— "  Hold  !  the  feather, 
Once  more,  for  Silver  Bell. 

"  Again  'tis  floating — ready  ! 
This  time  'tis  harder  far  : 
See  how  the  light  thing  trembles  ! 
Steady,  Shooting  Star. 

'  Twas  cut  nice  in  the  middle  ; 

And  ere  the  slim  tip  fell, 
Lithe  as  a  hound  leapt  forward 
The  winner  of  Silver  Bell : 


' ' '  Brown  beauty,  blind  was  the  bullet- 

A  clumsy  shot,'  he  said  ; 
But  my  Marksman  paid  dear  for  it, 
In  the  shade  of  the  hazels — dead.' 


SILVER  BELL.  I99 


"  The  stare  of  the  girl  was  savage 
As  a  panther's  on  the  prey, — 
'  There  's  the  hand  :  a  wound,  and  no  bleeding  ?  * 
She  had  pressed  the  blood  away. 

"  Slow  back  she  stept,  and  halted, 
And  at  her  heart  aimed  well : 
Will  you  give  over  or  claim  it — 
The  prize  of  Silver  Bell  ? ' 

'"Go  free,'  he  said  ;  '  'twas  the  other  ! 

I  '11  take  my  way  afar.' 
And  never  saw  she  thereafter 
The  face  of  Shooting  Star. 

"  She  never  saw  him  thereafter, 

Nor  has  he  shot  from  the  day 
He  cut  the  gray  hawk-feather, 
And  took  his  lonely  way." 


SILVER  BELL. 


The  old  man  stopt,  still  eyed  them,  ] 

Smoothing  his  weapon  bright,— 

"  As  gray  as  the  gray  hawk-feather, 

There  comes  the  morning  light. 

"  You  all  are  young,  all  shooters 

Let  two  come  out  the  door 
That  think  it  safe  to  face  him — 
Old  Shooting  Star,  once  more." 

So  passed  he  into  the  morning, 

Still  turning  from  afar ; 
But  no  man  chose  to  follow, 

A  target  for  Shooting  Star. 


HELEN. 

/^VN  certing  subjects  I  jest  know  : 
There  's  gals  an'  gals,  I  say, 
An'  the  purtiest — don't  care  where  you  go — 
Lived  yender,  crost  the  way. 

Them  ankles,  round  as  a  rollin'-pin  ; 

That  braid  which  hung  way  down  ; 
All  bright  as  if  the  day  'd  struck  in — 

A  sky  gal  on  the  groun' ; 

A  leetle  color  on  her  cheek, 

Where  the  blood  looks  out  o'  door, 

Like  them  fust  changes  on  the  maples 
From  frost,  the  night  afore — 


HELEN. 


No  use  in  paintin'  a  snowdrift  white, 

I  needn't  go  no  fu'ther  ; 
God  might,  I  s'pose — I  s'pose  he  might — 

But  he  never  made  another. 

We  warn't  no  more  nor  a  year  apart, 
I  'd  watched  her  from  a  chicken  ; — 

I  'm  there,  right  there,  when  you  're  talkin'  heart 
An'  this  'ere  women-pickin'. — 

We  learnt  together.     At  a  book 

I  hedn't  no  special  sconce, 
But  in  lickin's — 'stead  o'  her,  I  took 

The  ruler  more  than  once. 

I  'd  danced  long  wi'  her  rether  reglar, 

At  most  the  scrapes  in  town  ; 
Fact,  I  hev  heerd  'twas  feared  I  'd  shake 

The  darned  old  tavern  down. 


HELEN.  203 


I  'd  helped  her  folks  at  killin'-time, 
Or  when  hay  was  late  in  cuttin'  ; 

An'  when  their  eatin'  warn't  quite  prime, 
Swapt  a  bit  of  veal  or  mutton. 

As  I  said,  we  started  head  an'  head, 
But  she  kept  gainin'  groun' ; 

At  last,  my  dander  up,  I  said, 
"  I  '11  in,  be  it  swim  or  drown." 

So,  'rangin'  on 't  some  evenin's  prev'ous, 
One  mornin'  I  hitched  the  pair  ; 

An',  riggin'  out  my  most  mischievous, 
Druv  her,  spinnin',  to  the  Fair. 

To  this  'ere  time,  to  put  it  nice, 
There  was  nothin'  wuth  declarin', 

'Cept  I  'd  kissed  her  onct  or  twice, 
At  a  huskin'  or  a  parin*. 


204  HELEN. 


The  grays,  I  swings  !  they  made  things  whistle, 

A-gittin'  to  the  Fair  ; 
An',  like  a  gold  finch  on  a  thistle, 

She  sot  beside  me  square. 

As  I  was  sayin',  the  grays  warn't  lazy, 

We  got  there  bright  an'  early  ; 
The  dew  still  glistenin'  on  the  daisy, 

The  hills  with  mist  all  curly. 

It  ain't  my  style — doin'  things  by  halves, 

I  cut  the  entire  figur' ; 
We  took  all  in,  from  the  colts  an'  calves 

To  the  patent  thig-a-magigger. 

Ball  butter,  punkins  two  foot  thro', 

Turnips,  an'  cheese,  an'  honey, 
Pink-eyes,  rag  carpets,  an'  patch  quilts,  too — 

We  seen  'em  ;  an'  I  slung  some  money. 


HELEN.  205 


I  scattered  the  coppers  ;  an'  my  pile, 

I  remarked,  I  'd  willin'  risk  it 
That  a  gal  I  knowed  could  beat  'em  a  mile 

On  gingerbread  and  biscuit. 

We  heerd  the  speech  an'  lots  o'  the  band, 
See  the  trot  an'  plowin'  matches  ; 

An'  I  never  so  much  as  techt  her  hand — 
Though  there  was  some  close  scratches. 

We  made  a  day  on 't :  see  all  the  stock, 

The  fruit,  the  home  manufactur's, 
An'  got  away  at  eight  o'clock, 
fc  'Thout  any  compound  fractur's. 

The  air  was  closter  than  I  need, 

An'  gin  me  a  sort  o'  chokin' ; 
So  I  druv  at  no  partic'lar  speed, 

An'  tried  to  pluck  up,  jokin'. 


206  HELEN. 


The  makeshift  didn't  take,  somehow, 

An',  rether  wuss  than  better, 
Sez  I,  "  I  '11  bring  things  hum,  right  now  ; 

If  she  mittings  me — let  her. 

Helen,"  sez  I,  a-takin'  her  hand, 

"  Anent  the  fire-fly's  spark, 
That 's  jest  my  fix — you  understand— 

A-burnin'  in  the  dark." 

She  sot  as  straight,  sir,  straight  an'  still, 

As  a  rabbit  in  the  wood — 
On  top  the  choke  I  took  a  chill ; 

She  certing  understood. 

The  goldenrods  are  comin*  on, 
The  sumachs  growin'  brighter, 

The  singin'  birds  hev  quit,  an'  gone," 
— I  squeezed  a  leetle  tighter — 


HELEN.  207 


"It's  lonesome  like  (ez  you  be  fair 

I  know  you  '11  be  forgivin'), 
An'  I  Ve  a  castle  in  the  air 
Too  big  for  one  to  live  in. 

"  Since  fust  we  played  house-keep  together — " 

Here  come  a  flash  o'  lightnin'  ! 
My  back-bone  felt  like  a  big  wet  feather, 
But  I  kept  my  hand  a-tightenin'. 

"  Ever  since  that  day — "  an'  there  I  broke. 

So  did  a  clap  o'  thunder  : 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hevings  spoke, 
An'  I  could  see  it  stunned  her. 

She  dropt  them  long,  thick,  sweepin'  lashes, 
And  her  face  grew  white  all  over, 

Like  where  a  sprinklin'  of  wood  ashes 
Brings  up  the  new  white  clover. 


2o8  HELEN. 


I — guess  we  '11  let  the  subjeck  drop. 

Do  you  hear  that  youngster  yellin'  ? 
When  he  begins  I  allers  stop, 

Give  the  floor  to  him  an' — Helen. 


POETRY   MADE   PRACTIC. 

(WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  MR.    STEDMAN.) 

'T^HE  leaves  are  gettin'  sere, 

The  green  is  growin'  gray  ; 
It 's  been  a  tryin'  day 
At  turnin'  o'  the  year. 

My  spritely  little  fire, 
It  frisks  it  brisk  as  though 
It  sort  o'  seemed  to  know 
A  heart  could  kind-a  tire. 

I  '11  hasp  that  swingin'  blind, 
And  pull  the  curting  down  ; 
It 's  most  too  fur  to  town 
Ag'in  a  nippin'  wind. 


POE  TR  Y  MA  DE  PR  A  CTIC. 


I  reck'n  I  better  read 
A  bit  o'  poetry  ; 
A  tech  of  love,  may  be, 
To  keep  from  goin'  to  seed. 

Hello,  what's  this  chap  at? 
'  The  Doorstep,"  eh.     That 's  right ; 
Not  quite  a  doorstep  night, 
This  'ere,  but  what  o'  that  ? 

Steady— he  's  not  there  yet. 
The  snow  all  crispy — good  ! 
'Twixt  "  tippet "  an'  the  "hood " 
There 's  suthin'  up,  I  '11  bet. 

Her  "  hand  outside  her  muff- 
She  's  fixin'  plaguy  quick  ; 
Well,  now,  that  is,  that 's  slick — 
A-hold  on  't !     Good  enough. 


POETRY  MADE  PRACTIC.  *« 

He  's  posted  how  things  goes 
With  country  folks,  I  see  ;— 
Dern  slumpy  poetry 
Onless  a  feller  does. 

Well  said— I  do  declare  ! 

The  "old  folks,"  "ringlets,"  "moon"— 

He's  stickin'  to  the  tune, 

And  must  be  almost  there. 

A  fiddle  on  his  "sister"  ! 
Ef  he  should  up  and  blunder- 
No,  by  the  jumpin'  thunder  ! 
He  has— he 's  kissed  her  !— 

Thar 's  poetry.— Down  you,  houn'  !— 

It  ain't  so  very  late  ; 

I  'm  goin'  to  strike  my  gait ; 

Yes,  sir,  I  'm  off  to  town. 


POE  TR  Y  MA  DE  PR  A  CTIC. 


An'  Mr.  Pole — Git,  Rover  ! — 
Ef  it  would  be  amusin', 
1  '11  prove  by  me  and  Susin 
Jest  "  who  can  live  youth  over." 


THE  TRAPPER'S  SWEETHEART. 

"\  1  HDE  awake,  now,  mind  your  eye, 
She  will  think  on  't  by  and  by  ; 
She  will  see — perhaps — she  may 
'Gin  to-morrer,  not  to-day. 

"  Be  true  to  me, 

Furgit,"  says  she, 
Jest  as  it  may  hit  her  fancy  : 
That 's  it  zackly,  that 's  my  Nancy. 

Take  a  squirrel  up  a  tree, 
Jest  so  frisky,  sir,  is  she  : 
Now  on  this  side,  now  on  that, 
You  must  watch  her  like  a  cat. 

It's  "No,"  it's  "Yes, 

I  rather  guess  " — 
Jest  as  it  may  tech  her  fancy  : 
That 's  it  zackly,  that 's  my  Nancy. 


214.  THE   TRAPPER'S  SWEETHEART. 

You  've  seen  creeturs  sudding  lame, 
Git  too  near  'em,  an' — they  're  game  ! 
Her  right  over  :  an  inch  too  near, 
Up  and  off  is  Nancy  dear. 
"  Yes,  Jake,"  says  she, 
"  Laws  sake  !  "  says  she, 
Jest  accordin'  to  her  fancy  : 
That 's  it  zackly,  that 's  my  Nancy. 

Whew,  a  gal 's  a  cunnin'  thing  ! 

You  must  take  'em  on  the  wing. 

I  '11  be  goin'  ;  fur,  ye  see, 
Nancy,  she 's  expectin'  me. 

I  '11  hit  or  miss  her, 

It 's  quit  or  kiss  her  ; 
I  'm  fur  facts,  while  she  's  fur  fancy  : 
That 's  us  zackly — me  and  Nancy. 


THE  JOCKEY'S   SOLILOQUY. 

T  WONDER  what's  got  in  'em  all, 

A-kitin'  arter  one : 

Whoa !     Young  and  old,  and  short  and  tall 
To  see  'em  break  and  run  ! 
I  vow,  it 's  quite  amusin', 
Their  thirty-gait  enthusin'— 
Come  tip,  old  Daisy,  gat, 
Come  up,  old  lazy  gall 


Gee  off,  I  say,  there— out  the  track  !— 
Great  turnpike,  how  they  come  ! — 
Haul  in,  and  take  an  easy  shack  ; 
Miss  Susin  ain't  to  home. 


2i6  THE  JOCKE  Y 'S  SOLIL OQUY. 

Sich  drivin'  is  abusin', 

Sich  thunderin'  enthusin' 

Come  up,  old  Daisy,  gal, 
Come  up,  old  lazy  gal ! 


Yes,  sir,  from  gawky  four-year  old 

To  splinty,  heavey  hoss, 

They  've  struck  a  gait  that  they  can't  hold 

On  Susin's  track  /'m  boss. 

P'r'aps  hardly  her  own  choosin', 

Don't  lay  the  blame  on  Susin     • 

Come  up,  old  Daisy,  gal. 

Come  up,  old  lazy  gal! 


Now,  she  warn't  made  for  no  junk  cart, 
She  'd  take  the  bit,  you  see  ; 
But  I  jest  broke  her  colty  heart 
'Thout  scratchin'  the  single-tree. 


THE  JOCKEY'S  SOLILOQUY,  217 

So,  now,  of  course,  no  trouble 

To  take  and  hitch  her  double 

Come  up,  old  Daisy,  gal, 
Come  up,  old  lazy  gal ! 

She  ain't  to  home,  boys — out  o'  town  ; 

Some  silver  plate,  you  know, 

And  ribbons — Neighbor,   good  morn'n' :    ride 

down 

As  fur  as  the  new  de-po  ? — 
Jehu  !  this  turnip 's  loosin' ; 
She  whistles  !     That  means  Susin — 
No  dancin\  there  :  well,  well, 
You  jealous  Daisy,  gal  / 


MODERN  PROGRESS. 

A  FEW  TECHES  ON'T,  BY  AN  OLD  FOGY. 

T  ^1  7E  'RE  livin',  now,  in  most  trimendious  times, 
Too  wondersome  for  plain  straight-furrid 

rhymes, 

But,  I  confess,  my  poor  old  fogy  brain — 
It  would  jest  like  to  ketch  a  glimpse,  again, 
Of  some  things  they  have  whisked  clean  out  of  ken, 
Upsettin'  Natur'  and  my  feller  men. 
The  good  old  world,  I  s'pose,  is  still  a  ball, 
And  keeps  a-rollin';  'pon  my  word,  that's  all 
Remains  o'  't  nat'ral.     Once  upon  a  time 
'Twas  suthin'  of  a  trip  from  clime  to  clime  ; 
But  any  ninny,  now,  can  stand  right  here 
And  holler  business  in  a  Hindoo's  ear. 


MODERN  PROGRESS.  219 

With  ingines,  snapagraphs  and  howlephones 

A-muddlin'  up  the  very  poles  and  zones  ! 

Good  Lord,  is  this  still  Adam's  fallen  race 

So  cool  annihilatin'  time  and  space, 

A-drivin'  of  the  coursers  o'  the  air 

As  sainted  granther  did  his  sorrel  mare  ! 

But  I  would  let  old  mother  Natur'  go 

If  they  would  leave  the  folks  I  used  to  know. 

Why,  them  nussed  at  the  breast  of  my  nativ'  Ian', 

Half  on  'em  talks  sost  I  can't  understan'; 

While  them  fresh  critters  from  a  furrin  shore, 

They  'd  scared  the  geese  at  our  old  homestead  door. 

Now  take,  for  inst',  them  rattin'  almond-eyed — 

I  thought  that  sich  lived  clean  on  t'  other  side  : 

Bless  ye,  there  ain't  no  t'  other  side,  to-day, 

Jess  like 's  not  Boston 's  sot  on  Bottany  Bay. 

The  times  is  thunderin'  wonderful,  I  know— 

This  ere  a  mixin'  up  creation  so  ; 

But,  by  my  bones  !  I  'd  like  once  more  t'  enjoy 

Them  blessin's  I  was  riz  to  from  a  boy. 


MODERN  PROGRESS. 


I  'd  like  the  reg'lar  old  religeon  back, 

Which  said  we  jest  must  walk  the  narrer  track, 

And  there  an  end  on 't :  now,  where  we  're  to  go 

(Maybe  some  folks  are  smarter)  I  don'  know. 

My  bible  might  as  well  be  on  the  shelf  ; 

They  've  found  the  world  jest  up  and  made  itself, 

And  Christians,  even,  have  fixed  the  Good  Book  over 

Until  there 's  lee  tie  left  on 't  but  the  cover. 

No,  faith,  I  '11  keep  the  track  my  fathers  trod, 

For  all  their  Sheols  and  their  Nothin'-God. 

Great  times,  it  seems,  is  made  of  rush  and  doubt, 

But  where  the  great  comes  in,  I  hain't  found  out. 

If  Natur's  done  for  and  religeon,  too, 

Pray  leave  me  suthin  a-ruther  't  won't  slump  thro' ! 

Leave,  say,  a  man  will  find  spare  time  to  sit 

Him  down  in  his  right  mind,  and  chat  a  bit ; 

A  plain,  old-fashioned,  homespun,  mortal  man, 

Who  allers  takes  it  easy  when  he  can. 

Leave  me  a  woman  tendin'  her  own  child, 

A-lookin'  like  they  used  to  when  they  smiled, 


MODERN  PROGRESS. 


Not  makin'  on  it ;  leave  a  good  cart-load 

Of  children  which  is  children  till  they  're  growed  ; 

Give  me  some  gals,  once  more,  can  mind  a  kitchen, 

And  tend  to  suthin  else  besides  bewitchin'; 

Some  women-folks  whose  art  ain't  quite  so  high 

They  're  clamberin'  up,  a-frescoin'  the  sky  ; 

Leave  boys  not  all  base-ball,  or  else  afloat 

In  tooth-pick  of  a  college  racin'-boat — 

Some  square-backed  boys  with  heads  on,  not  them 

cranes 
From    York,    with    a   teaspoonful    of   bran    for 

brains  ; 

Leave  me  a  story-book,  'fore  I  begin  it  \ 
I  know  for  sure  that  there 's  a  story  in  it, 
And  let  me  get  at  least  a  quarter  through  one 
Before  the  feller  comes  out  with  a  new  one  ; 
And  I  'd  enjoy,  once  more,  a  poet's  flutin' 
That  warn't  all  zigzag,  friskin',  hifalutin'. 
Leave  papers  with  some  readin'-matter  in 
Betwixt  the  murders  and  patent  medercin', 


MODERN  PROGRESS. 


A  room  I  dare  set  down  in  if  a-faintin', 

Some  dinner-plates  for  puddin'— not  for  paintin'; 

A  doctor  not  so  swamped  in  his  M.  D. 

His  stuff  ain't  wuth  a  pinch  of  raspberry  tea. 

And  let  me  mention,  lest  I  be  forgettin', 

Leave  me  at  least  one  good  old  hen  for  settin': 

Them    han'-made   hens   may   hatch,    but,    for  all 

weathers, 

I  '11  stick  to  an  old  speckled  hen  with  feathers. 
Well,  this  will  do  ;  with  these  I  '11  get  along 
The  few  days  left.     If  I  have  spoke  too  strong, 
This  mighty  age— it  must  be  mighty  kind, 
And  parding  me  for  freein'  of  my  mind. 


UNIVEKSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


R  '* 


H  01682 


